Hyperemesis gravidarum
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Taking the ongoing story a logical step further. In which three of my Assassins realise they're all part of a select little club. Assassins have family too...
1. An unprecedented situation

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate.**_

 _A short featuring some of my favourite Assassins. This deals with changes, transformations and new beginnings. But they lead to lifelong commitment. I'm aware this is stepping out of sequence chronologically, perhaps two years after the conclusion of "_ _ **Let's Bungle in the Jungle**_ _", and I haven't (yet) written about what happened when Ponder met her parents for the first time. Nor have I written about the biggest wedding ever to be held in the sleepy backwater town of Piemburg. (look at the guest list…)_

 _It's an aspect of the New Assassins' Guild and School that nobody's really considered yet. But one that I want to write just to explore "What if…." and the associated "_ _ **when**_ _it happens"._

 _Our tale begins in a strange and inhospitable place… where it finishes is anyone's guess. I may leave it here and write odd little glimpses into the lives of my Assassins as they get older. But not necessarily wiser._

 _The Neverglade Swamps are first seen in_ _ **Raising Steam**_ _as an example of the sort of terrain engineers had to get railways through. They are further discussed in_ _ **Mrs Bradshaw's Guide To The Railways**_ _and again contradict Terry's stated intention that no part of the Americas should be referenced on the Discworld. The ambience is very definitely Haiti with a lot of Carribean/French South America. In fact, you half expect there to be a secure prison called Astfgl's Island… (_ _ **Papillion**_ _on the Discworld. Now there's a tale…)_

 _ **The Assassins' School, Ankh-Morpork.**_

The Comptesse de Lapoignard, house-mistress of Black Widow House, sat on the edge of her bed feeling ill and drained. She had succeeded to the title a year or two earlier following the regrettable death of her mother-in-law, the Dowager Countess de Lapoignard. Heads had turned her way at the funeral, often with knowing Quirmian nods and winks at the way of the world, and an understanding that this is sometimes how these things must be, madame Comptesse. _Alors_ , when the daughter-in-law, whose route to the nobility is barred by an unsympathetic and uncongenial _ancienne,_ is also an Assassin, then it is the way of the world, and understood between people of _affaires_ , hmmm?

Emmanuelle had protested in vain that her professional qualifications had nothing to do with it, and this death had been entirely due to natural causes. The old _beldame_ had been over eighty, for goodness sake?

People had responded with more knowing winks and statements like " _Bien sûr._ I understand you may not say out loud", or "As you wish, ma Comptesse", or "We understand _perfectly!_ " and carried on believing it had been a Guild contract, administered by a daughter-in-law with every moral and legal right to do so, that took the old lady.

Maurice, her husband, a husband she suspected she loved a little, had even in his grief supported her. He had said Emmanuelle was blameless as, had she murdered his mother, there would have been stab wounds. _Many_ stab wounds. _Beaucoup des blessés_. "And besides, the doctors found no trace of poison. _Believe me, I checked with them._ And the good Lord Downey had no reason to lie when I asked him to spare my wife's embarrassment in this matter. He has presented a written disclaimer denying the Guild brought about my mother's death. Do you not believe that? Normally when they kill they shout it from the rooftops!"

But all of Quirm thought otherwise, it seemed. Not that Quirmian society expressed outrage or shock about it. The opposite, in fact. Emmanuelle was seen as a virtuous saint for having put up with the old woman's pettinesses and nastiness for so long. The gossip columns in _**Quirm-Match**_ , _**Le Disque-Monde, Le Quirmien**_ and all the rest had gleefully run with the story. It had even made the _ **Ankh-Morpork Times'**_ society pages and gossip columns.

Downey had announced it to the School before breakfast one morning.

"Following the sad death of her mother-in-law, _and no inference is to be drawn from this_ , it falls to me to announce that Madame Deux-Epées, housemistress of Black Widow House, is from now on to be officially known by the title to which she has succeeded. In official correspondence and formal situations, she is now the Comptesse de Lapoignard and may be formally addressed as "My Lady"."

All eyes had fallen on Emmanuelle, who remained poker-faced. The rumours had reached the student body too. It had been hideously uncomfortable.

"She has asked me to state that in lessons and non-formal situations, her former name of Madame Deux-Epées is acceptable and will suffice. I will remind all present that the Inhumation Bell expressly did _not_ ring for the former Comptesse. Her death was due to natural causes. Thank you."

This had not stopped her overhearing students speculating that it was _definitely_ natural causes. What was more natural a cause than an Assassin inhuming her husband's mother?

She sighed. It had died down in the time since. All she had to worry about was this abominable weakness, nausea and ill feeling in the early part of the day. She resolved to see Matron Igorina, once she was back from that half-term expedition to Quirm. Emmanuelle stood, and hoped her teaching assistant could carry a larger part of the Swords class this morning. She really did not feel up to it. At least it was an informal extra class, designed to keep the residue of students in School over the holiday gainfully occupied.

 _ **The Neverglade Swamps, Quirm.**_

The swampy marshland was never quiet, even at night. Animals called, croaked and ululated. Things bubbled in the unquiet waters. Vegetation rustled, often with ominous intent not normally found in plant life.

The half-term expedition, composed of senior students, several teachers, a couple of representatives of Unseen University, and local guides, took up a defensive position on the relatively higher and drier ground where they had made camp. Miss Alice Band called "Close up!" urgently as the _things_ shambled forwards. She registered Johanna Smith-Rhodes, now for at least _some_ official purposes Mrs Stibbons, **(1)** handing out the special munitions. The _untried, untested_ , weapons she had insisted the expedition carry for this specific purpose.

Alice sighed and lit the oil-soaked rags tied just behind the point of her arrow. _This_ was tried and tested. She counted to three to allow the flame to catch, nocked, aimed, and loosed. The firing line of mainly students followed her lead. She saw the shambling thing bowled over by the force of the impact and heard it scream dully as it caught fire. It writhed, making strange shapes in the jungle-black night.

Then the crossbows and bows firing the special munitions cracked into action. One of the zombies lurched backwards and shuddered, a vague shape in the night. Then as it tried to pluck the bolt out of its stomach, there was a pinpoint of yellow-green light. It screamed, a dull unearthly screech, as the incendiary chemicals contained in the hollow glass head erupted into flame. Deep inside its torso, driven deep by the impact and the breaking of the glass containing them, thus exposing the chemical mixture to air. Alice whistled appreciatively as the zombie seemed to explode into two fiercely burning halves. Which carried on burning even when it fell into water.

The dull chant of _Cervaux! Cervaux!_ continued, as the zombies pressed forward. But fire-arrows and incendiaries were hitting them hard. Alice took down another with a fire-arrow, noticing the green pallor, the sallow skin, the rags of clothing and the utter lack of intelligence in the sunken eyes.

"Do not allow them to draw close." Alain Lanier said, urgently. He was one of the local guides to the swamps. "They have a formidable strength! And a bite or a scratch has consequences!"

He fired again. Next to him, Reg Shoe from the City Watch was shooting straight and true, but accompanying every shot with a "sorry, brother." that sounded heartfelt. Reg paused and scrutinised another target closely. His arrow, one of the special rounds, bowled it over.

"Sorry, sister." he said, as the latest zombie burst into flame.

Alice nodded to him, noting the assault was failing and the creatures were beginning to retreat.

"Sorry, Reg." she said, appreciatively, understanding his position. The Zombie policeman smiled wanly.

"Can't be helped, miss. They're just revenants. Like the ones in Kneck castle. No intelligence. No reasoning. Maybe this is the merciful way."

Lanier looked over suspiciously. Accepting a zombie as part of the expedition group had meant persuasion and a heavy bonus. He still wasn't happy with the idea.

"You had a chance to reason with them. Work them out." she said. She understood that for Reg, discovering there _were_ such things as classic brain-consuming Zombies in the world had shaken his spirits somewhat. And the revenants had attacked on three straight nights now. Where they went to in the day was not known.

"I _tried_ , miss. But there's nothing there to talk to. Beats me where they came from!" Reg had come here specifically to find out about Neverglades zombies. He'd learnt more than he wanted to. His report for Commander Vimes and Lord Vetinari was going to be gloomy and pessimistic.

"They come from the _boucors_." Lanier said, flatly. The party watched the remnant of their attackers fade back into the treeline. That would be the end of it for this night. "The native mages. They are created to work and need little sustenance. When the _boucor_ who made them dies, they live on, but have no master. They fade into the forest. Also, we have tales that in the Dark War of some thousands of years ago, the dark Igors, the… how do you say, the Rogi? The Rogi learnt the secret of re-awakening corpses. They built a zombie army for the Dark Empire. Its last members fled here, to the swamp."

"And here they are still." Alice mused. "Caused the Rail Ways no end of bother."

"They still do." said a dry cultivated voice. It belonged to the Compte de Yoyo, a senior teacher at the Guild School. Although nearly sixty, the Compte still had the vigour of a far younger man and like his ancestors, loved expeditions and exploring.

"Which is part of the reason why we're here. The Rail Ways and the Quirmian authorities see us thinning out zombie numbers. The students get live combat experience. They can't inhume actual _people,_ obviously, but there's no bar on them destroying zombies. Practical survival training in inhospitable terrain. And Doctor Bellamy, Doctor Stibbons…. That is, _Doctor Smith-Rhodes_ – and Igorina get their samples to take back."

Compte de Yoyo took a deep appreciative breath.

"This sort of thing makes you feel _alive_ , Alice! I'm going to miss this if I ever retire!"

Alice smiled.

"Anyone hurt?" somebody asked.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Igorina! We're all safe here."

"That's what everyone's saying, Alice. Pity." Matron Igorina said. Then she added: "I'm going to need an escort to watch my back. I need some more bone and tissue samples. You know, for my report."

Alice understood: Igorina wasn't just there as medical officer. Her goal was to try and isolate any physical, tangible, cause for Neverglades zombism. It was different to anything seen elsewhere on the Disc. Speculation among Igors was that some sort of biological agent was involved, as well as magic and belief. The Igors had long lost the secrets of their Rogi relatives, preferring to sustain life rather than destroy it. But they had an intellectual curiosity about the dark side, and if there was a cause, some sort of mutation or biological agent, it might be possible to come up with a cure. But this needed samples of zombie flesh for secure containment and analysis back in the City. Gathering these could be risky.

Alice nodded.

"Bring Professor Rincewind." she suggested, practically. "If any of them are still alive – well, active – he'll spot it first. In fact, I'll join you."

The whimpering and protesting Rincewind was prodded forwards and told to go with Igorina and Alice. The others watched them move cautiously forwards, Alice bringing up the rear behind Unseen University's Professor of Cruel and Egregious Geography. The University had sent him along on the grounds that a trip to the Neverglades was _right_ up his job description. **(2)**

The Compte de Yoyo, one of the nominated leaders of the party, watched happily. A wilderness expedition, a continual fight against the elements, and a deadly enemy to fight. Life didn't get any better than this. He glanced over to where Doctor Smith-Rhodes was supervising the students in making weapons safe and performing post-combat checks. He frowned. It wasn't apparent how, exactly, but a little of her _edge_ seemed to have gone. It was apparent. He wondered if married life was making her more mellow, and dulling her aptitude for combat. And she wasn't the only one…

 _Ah well. They never attack by day. We can stand down, post guards, and try to get a bit of sleep before morning._

In the distance Rincewind yelped with alarm. There was a dull unhealthy-sounding thudding, crunching, noise and a grunt of satisfaction, suggesting one of them wasn't quite properly down yet and Alice had finished it off.

* * *

Emmanuelle still felt a little nauseated and off-colour. She took advantage of a free period after the swords class to go to the Prancing Pony Tearooms, a very genteel establishment which she had a fondness for. They served a very good Ghatian tea, the best. A pot of good tea might help her stomach settle.

It didn't help that she met the ugly city witch Mrs Proust on the way, who greeted her politely, and then said something puzzlingly nonsequeterial. It wasn't until Emmanuelle was sipping her second cup that the possible import of Mrs Proust's words dawned on her. She very nearly spat her mouthful of tea back out as she realised. She wondered if there were other Igorinas in town who she could speak to.

* * *

The expedition camp served coffee and breakfast to the fifty or so people who had set up a base on the grassy hillock. Johanna Smith-Rhodes drank her coffee with foreboding, feeling nauseous and uncharacteristically lethargic. As the porridge arrived, she added a little honey from her dwindling personal supply, and really hoped she could keep it down _this_ morning.

 _Ag. This would be fun if it wasn't for this verdamte sickness. Not severe enough for me to request evacuation, but enough to make life difficult. If it gets worse I may have to confide in Alice or Davinia and ask their advice. This is a difficult place, and one person going ill could imperil all._

It happened again shortly after breakfast. Johanna retreated to the designated privy and found herself retching. As the tide of nausea and revulsion ebbed, she cleaned up, turned, and found Doctor Davinia Bellamy standing behind her. She also looked tired and drawn.

"So it's not just me, then." Davinia remarked. "I heard you from fifty yards away."

"You too, Vinnie? Ag, we need to see Igorina. If this is something contagious…"

Davinia smiled, weakly.

"Nobody else has got this, I think. I'd be _very_ surprised if Alice contracted it."

Johanna shook her head, wearily. Her thought processes felt slower than usual.

"So… nothing local, then. Vinnie, is this something we both picked up in the city end brought out with us?"

There was a long pause while Davinia thought of something appropriate to say.

"That's what Igorina thinks." she said, eventually. "I've seen her, Johanna. I really think _you_ should too. After all it's not about just _you_ any more, is it?"

" _Ja._ Es people keep reminding me, I em a merried woman now. It would not be fair to Ponder if I fell ill."

"Not fair to Ponder." Davinia repeated. She shook her head. "Look, come with me. Igorina's sort of half-expecting you, anyway."

Johanna felt a few sets of worried eyes watching her as Davinia led her to Igorina's tent and makeshift medical station. The Compte de Yoyo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"We'll keep you informed." Davinia told him. She left Johanna with a reassuring hug and retired some way away.

Igorina looked up from her microscope. She didn't seem entirely surprised at her new patient.

Then she turned grave eyes to Johanna and asked her to describe the symptoms. She listened, seemingly with half an ear, and nodded.

" _Hyperemesis gravidarum_." Igorina murmured to herself. Johanna tried to make sense of the Latatian.

"Some sort of sickness bug?" she asked. "Vinnie thinks we picked it up beck in the city end brought it here with us. Is it contagious?"

Igorina permitted herself a half-smile.

"Only to women." She replied. "Men are just the carriers."

Johanna frowned, puzzled, wishing her tired brain would catch up and get to work.

"Look." Igorina said, kindly. "I need you to get me a sample, just to be sure. Next time you go to the privy. Bring it here – I do not require gallons, a trickle will suffice – and I can test it. But if it's what I think it is, you and Davinia both are off this expedition. _No. Arguing!_ As medical officer here, if I say you're not fit, you're not fit. You _go._ And the Compte will support me. Light duties until we can arrange evacuation."

"Well, yes, but whet _is_ it?" Johanna pleaded. "I've elways been healthy! I hev never hed this before!"

Igorina took a deep breath. She felt this was going to take some time.

"Johanna, how long have you been married now?" she asked, patiently. "Did your mother never have The Talk with you?"

* * *

Doctor Lawn at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital had known Emmanuelle for quite a long time and had been medically helpful on several prior occasions. This engendered trust. Liking her personally, he had asked if she needed a private consultation. Trusting him, she had agreed.

He had heard her symptoms sympathetically, and remarked that in these circumstances he never knew whether to say " _congratulations_ " or " _Oh, tough luck_ ".

"Usually, I can figure it out from context." he remarked. "And you have to agree, one of the essential duties of a Comptesse is to provide her Compte with a reliable line of succession. One heir and one spare, so to speak. If I were you I'd clacks Maurice. He should be delighted."

Emmanuelle felt hot and cold flushes of horror passing up and down her body. As women with complicated lives do in these circumstances, she frantically tried to backdate the calendar. Maurice had spent a long leave with her two months ago. During that time she had indeed been a faithful and dutiful wife and had done everything demanded of her. Often, frequently, and with every satisfaction in a marital chore well done. But there was an outside, lingering, chance it might be Scrote Jones…

"But I cannot be pregnant!" she wailed. Mossy Lawn looked back at her with tolerant and wise eyes. " _Enceinte! Moi?_ Ten years ago I promised myself this would be something for the future, for when I was older…"

She realised what she was saying, and her voice trailed off.

"Yes." Mossy Lawn said. " _Exactly_. And as your physician and as an obstetrician, I prescribe the following…"

She half-heard the list of medical recommendations. No excessive physical activity after the start of the second trimester. Although she could carry on taking sit-down classrooms until almost the very last moment.

"And ginger is good for morning sickness." Mossy said.

* * *

"You can take it as ginger beer, you can buy ginger wine, you can eat ginger biscuits, and many Agatean and BhangBhangDucian foods use it as a major ingredient." Igorina went on. "You would be _surprised_ how it mitigates the effects of morning sickness. Cup of tea and a ginger biscuit first thing. Toast with ginger marmalade. Instruct Ponder. Do you employ a cook yet? You'll probably need a nanny too."

Johanna tried to take it in.

"You know, I haven't done all that many pregnancies before." Igorina remarked, pleasantly. "No call for it in the Guild School. Not a single one among the pupils, but that's good management, I suppose. And now I get _two_ among the teaching staff. Funny old world, isn't it? Ah well, better ask the Compte and Alice to drop in. They need to know too. To arrange for replacements to come out from the Guild, for one thing. You're going _home_ , Johanna!"

* * *

Mossy Lawn had tea sent in. Emmanuelle sipped in gloomy silence.

"I was slow when Mrs Proust greeted me this morning." she said. "I was puzzled when she said there was going to be a bonny heir to the Lapoignard name, and that he would be a strong, healthy, and intelligent child. I presumed it was a prediction for my future, and a valid one coming from a witch. I did not think that it would be in my _near_ future!"

"Witches see things." Doctor Lawn said. He had worked in the past with Mrs Ogg from Lancre, possibly the Disc's best midwife, and he had met Tiffany Aching, who had learnt this aspect of the Craft from Nanny Ogg. "Don't ask me how, but if she says you're pregnant with a boy, then you're pregnant with a boy."

"And then, in the _salon du thé,_ I thought to this sickness of the mornings I am currently inflicted with. And I knew I needed a medical opinion."

* * *

"I knew straight away." Davinia Bellamy said. "It just needed confirmation from Igorina. Look, this _is_ going to be my _fourth_!"

The Compte de Yoyo sighed. He rather felt this was beyond his competence. A lifelong bachelor, when he died, the family title would pass to his nephew, his brother's oldest. There were some mysteries inherent in marriage of which he cherished his ignorance.

"Two of you." he repeated. "Well, it is unthinkable for an expectant mother to remain here in these conditions."

A thought struck him and he looked at Alice Band.

"Now wait a _minute_!" Alice said, affronted. "The chances of _my_ getting pregnant are hovering at just above zero, and you know why!"

Alice had heard about turkey basters. She found the idea revolting. She had determined that if she ever loved one other woman enough to want to settle down with her, _she_ could damn well start the family, however she chose to do it.

"But this expedition has only three more days to run." Johanna said, trying to plead her case. "I can tough it out till then."

"Don't be silly, Johanna." Davinia said, firmly. "Look, you know about pennyroyal? Grows like a weed, used as a natural contraceptive, and you and I should go _nowhere near_ it for the next few months as it induces abortions and miscarriages?"

Johanna nodded.

"Well, in this swamp, there's a version called _livre-royaume_." Davinia said, flatly. "You could call it _dollar-royal_ in Morporkian. Do you get the picture? And I am currently really, really, hoping for a daughter."

Alice recognised her colleague's determination. She asked

"How far is the nearest Clacks tower?"

"There's one at the Rail Way line." The Compte replied. "In extremis we _could_ stop a train and evacuate the ladies to the city that way. But I propose we wait for the regular communication flight due in this morning. We send a message back with the pilot, if it's one of the Air Watch, and request a magic carpet comes out with some urgency, bearing replacement staff. We can have Doctor Smith-Rhodes and Doctor Bellamy back in the city by mid-afternoon, if all goes well."

"There's a silly superstition." Igorina said, making everyone else glad that she was a modern Igor who did not use the clan lisp. "Completely unscientific, but the folklore says all these things come in threes. _Two_ pregnant women in the same workplace is not nearly enough. I wouldn't be surprised if when we all get back, we discover there's a third. But as I say, a silly superstition."

* * *

Professor Ponder Stibbons of Unseen University was dealing with the latest batch of clacks flimsies that one of the house-goblins had brought down from the tower they'd had installed on the roof. It had taken Mustrum Ridcully, a man who was somewhat set in his ways, some time to accept that his right-hand-man no longer lived in at the University. Frequently the University calm was broken by Ridcully bellowing "STibbbb-ONS!…. oh…" . as he remembered.

Ridcully had taken to clacksing his demands and queries to Ponder Stibbons. Ponder had sighed, and realised how quickly the physical space between the University and Spa Lane could be crossed. He wrote _"It's in your lower left-hand desk draw. I should know, I put it there."_ on the bottom of one, and sent it for Clacksing, with Op De Veldt Deze Nacht De Leeuw Geschikt. **(3)** The goblin saluted him and ran to the little door in the wall.

There was a knock on the door; Ponder was pleased to see his near-neighbour, prison officer Peter Bellamy.

"Thought you might appreciate a social beer." Peter said, affably. "It'll be a while before the boys are back, and I've just come off shift."

They moved to the garden, neighbours bonded via their respective wives, both women who saw their kitchens as informal staffrooms for women teachers at the Assassins' Guild School. They took chairs to one of the safe parts of the garden. Davinia Bellamy had given Johanna generous help with getting the garden set up and running. The garden verges and border plants were not ones Ponder cared to go too near. The Thieves' Guild had complained loudly when one of their members had been inconvenienced when burgling a neighbouring house and had leapt the fence to evade pursuit. Urticaria is not nice when delivered by normal nettles and thistles. The plant varieties Davinia had installed as a theft-deterrent left normal nettle-rash a _long_ way down the scale. 4 **(4)**

Relaxing in the carefree uninterrupted manner of husbands who know their wives are well out of town and won't be expected back for three days, Ponder and Peter enjoyed the mid-afternoon air of a mellow late autumn. There was something of a Ghatian Summer over Ankh-Morpork: cloudless blue skies and unseasonal warmth.

"I've almost given up worrying about her, to be honest." Peter Bellamy said. "It allows her to burn off her surplus energy legally, and you can't say the Guild doesn't train them to be able to rise to any situation."

"I'm just relieved this latest assignment didn't need me." Ponder agreed. "We sent Rincewind and a couple of career thaumaturgists. You know, to help Vinnie get her plant samples."

Thaumaturgists were the University's go-anywhere, do-anything, adventurers. Composed of men who had failed the more intellectual aspects of Wizardry, they formed a self-contained caste within Unseen University and boasted that whatever rare ingredient was needed for a spell, whatever hard to obtain item, whatever animal or plant secretion or improbable thing – they would track it down and deliver. The very best Thaumaturgists were also very rich men with a taste for adventure, and skills that could rival any Assassin or Thief.

"I could go a long way without seeing the Neverglades." Peter agreed. "You know, I always used to think botany was _dull_?"

Davinia Bellamy taught botany to student Assassins. Her greenhouses, hothouses and smallholdings did have a lot of the everyday dull sort of herbaceous life, admittedly. And a lot of the things she grew could be eaten without ill-effects and were both nutritious and tasty. Peter just had qualms about the _other_ sort. It had got her into big trouble once and had directly led to her being invited to join the Assassins' Guild. **(5)**

There was an affronted feline squeal. Both heads turned to watch a self-propelled feral cat leaping vertically in the air for about six feet and then running like Hell.

"But cats don't crap in any garden Vinnie designs."

"It's the cat-bite." Ponder sighed. Catbite was a plant which had heard about catnip. And improved on it. Kaffee raised his head inquisitively and considered chasing the cat, just on general principles. Peter reached down and patted his flank. The dog relaxed back into rest. It was a mellow afternoon.

Ponder checked the time. At five, a pair of designated student Assassins would arrive to take the dogs for a good long walkies, maybe up Mithering Heights to the Tump. Ponder approved of this. Johanna's students were crazy over animals and the girls clamoured for doggie-time. She assigned the walkies-rota as informal reward for good behaviour. He looked up to where the bulk of the Tump rose behind the lines of houses and felt happy he wasn't expected to do more than occasional dog-walking. All he needed to do was to ensure today's girls were offered cold drinks and perhaps a light snack. It was a husbandly duty he could live with.

"Both your boys are Taking Black, I expect?" he asked, politely. Davinia and Peter had three sons. The oldest was a building apprentice who was well-thought-of by his College. The other two were student Assassins coming up to the moment of decision, to stay on at the School or to leave.

"Can't say no, can I?" Peter Bellamy sighed. "Mind you, one of the boys graduating as an Assassin and then going into prison management. I can see advantages there."

They contemplated the beneficial effect on prison discipline that an Assassin-trained person could undoubtedly exert.

"You know, I'm still getting used to all this." Ponder said, contemplating the big spacious house and generous garden in which he had a half-share by marriage. He'd been brought up by two maiden aunts. Then sent to the University's school for budding prospects and lived in dorms. Then a Hall of Residence as a student wizard. Various grace-and-favour rooms in the University had followed, culminating in his inheriting Dean Henry's old suite. Only now, in his thirties, did he have a proper private residence to call his own, shared with nobody except a handful of domestic servants. And Johanna. In some ways he missed the noise and bustle and sense of transience involved in communal living. The silence was new and strange and, he had to admit, pleasant.

Peter Bellamy nodded. His life before Davinia had been an overcrowded house. Then various Army and City Watch barracks in various places. He too had found the unaccustomed space and quiet to be strange and somewhat intimidating. Then he reflected on what came after marriage and a first home.

 _He's got it all to come yet. Johanna's from a big family._

One of the house goblins, Leopard-In-Baobab-Tree-Nursing-Kill, ran out with two more chilled bottles. Peter thanked the goblin politely, remembering that the accepted phrase was " _Dankie_!" One of the human house-staff, possibly Blessing or Dorothea, stood in the background, arms akimbo and looking disapproving. _OK, so it's really their job,_ Ponder thought _. But try stropping a goblin who believes he has the right to serve beer to the baas._ He'd mention it to Johanna again - _demarcation of duties among staff. By rights, goblins only here to service Clacks station and run messages. Our complement of barely-affordable human servants do all the rest, such as servicing the needs of the Baas and the Baas-Lady._

The two men clinked bottles, appreciating the little joys of domestic life and wife-free quiet in which no demands were being made on them.

Peter saw the flying carpet in the sky first. He drew Ponder's attention to it as it circled above, making a couple of lazy circuits of the airspace above Spa Lane. Then it descended. The dogs perked up expectantly and Crème began barking.

Ponder sighed, heavily.

"Looks like they're back!" he said, alarmed.

* * *

Lord Downey put the despatch down on the tabletop in front of him with a heavy put-upon sigh. He turned to the other Dark Council members who had been summoned for a special meeting to discuss the situation.

"That makes it three now." He said, looking stern and disapproving. "A somewhat _unprecedented_ situation."

"Why _unprecedented_ , exactly, Master?" Joan Sanderson-Reeves observed. Her voice carried. She was renowned for it. "Women have been getting themselves pregnant and carrying babies since Day One."

"Well… from the morning of Day Two, possibly." somebody corrected her. Joan glared at him. She was renowned for her glares, too.

"None of us would be here if our mothers hadn't got pregnant. It's hardly _unexpected._ And this school has been admitting gels and graduating female Assassins for some years now. I'm damn surprised this hasn't happened earlier!"

Downey winced. It had been downright embarrassing to realise the Guild had no policies or protocols for dealing with the practical consequences of pregnant Assassins. It was as if a collective decision had been made, at some level, by an all-male Guild establishment to ignore the whole tricky area, and hope it might never happen.

"All I can say is, it's completely inconvenient." Downey grumbled. "Three of our best teachers. All at once."

There was a well-bred snort. Eyes turned to Lady T'Malia, a veteran of the Guild and School.

"Oh, come now, Donald." she said. "All three are married women. It's not unreasonable for them to want to become mothers. Work-life balance, and all that. And Emmanuelle's situation positively dictates that she _must_ become a mother. Her position as Countess de Lapoignard _demands_ an heir to the estates. It is imperative for a woman in her social position!"

"Well, yes." Downey agreed. "But where am I going to find another housemistress for Black Widow House at short notice? Emmanuelle cannot raise a child there!"

"There's one of the graduated teaching assistants, Master." Monsieur Le Balouard pointed out. "As you know, we direct Quirmian-speaking students to my own House if male, or to Black Widow House if female. I propose that now she has her teaching diploma, Mademoiselle de Badin-Boucher be promoted and elevated to the role. She's fit!"

"Well, yes." Downey conceded. "But she's also Acerian."

" _De L'Acerie Quirmienne."_ Le Balouard corrected him. "A dialect, certainly. But Madame La Comptesse has no issues with that!" **(6)**

"Other Quirmians do." Downey said. " _Parents._ "

But he relented.

"I'll approach her and see if she can take Black Widow on a temporary basis. Just to see how she fares. But my other concern is how long the Countess can keep up Swords training as her condition…. develops. A Mistress-At-Arms who is very obviously pregnant may not look seemly."

"I'm sure there are alternatives. Miss Band can take some Swords classes to a fairly advanced level."

There was a pause.

"Alice. Can we be sure _she_ won't…"

Everyone looked at the speaker.

"Ah. Apologies. I was forgetting."

"There _are_ such things as turkey-basters." Somebody else remarked. Joan glared at him.

"In _my_ opinion, they're just for basting turkeys with!" she boomed.

There was a pause.

"Zoology, Biology and Natural History?" Mr Mericet ventured, practically. "I myself can cover Doctor Smith-Rhodes' classes in Applied Exothermic Alchemy – and I must say, such a remarkably inventive mind from whom I have learnt much. But her other classes require cover."

"Miss van Kruger has also graduated as a full Teacher." Joan said, decisively. "Dem' fine young woman there, almost another Johanna in the making. She's been trained to cover most of Johanna's classes, and knows the Zoo backwards."

"Ah, yes." Downey said, brightening. "She requires continuing reasons to retain her work visa in Ankh-Morpork. We know her Government is keen for her to return and accept a contract of employment for the Bureau of State Security as a field operative. While I concede a Guild member in that organisation would be most useful for intelligence purposes, BOSS _does_ have an unsavoury reputation. Heidi would be useful at this point."

"And Miss N'Kweze." Joan added. "Also trained by Johanna, and _also_ needing to be advanced from Teaching Assistant to full Teacher."

Downey nodded assent and made a note.

"You see, Master. _Some_ of us have thought ahead, and prepared for this sort of eventuality." Joan added, with quiet satisfaction.

* * *

The carpet hovered a few feet off the lawn. Peter and Ponder shuffled uneasily as two Assassins and their equipment unloaded and descended to earth. Their respective wives were both dressed in what had started out as camouflage, chipped splinters in various browns and dark greens. But up to about mid-thigh, the trousers were a uniform dark brown suggesting repeated immersion in what observers hoped was only mud of some kind.

Johanna glared at Ponder. He had a growing, uneasy, sensation he'd somehow done something to irritate her. And that he was expected to work out what it was. Her dogs surged around her, barking their mad canine happiness at the return of Mistress. The cocktail of Neverglades smells was, to them, something to savour.

Davinia smiled, serenely.

"I'm going to need a bath when I get in, I think." she said. "Peter, we need a word later."

Peter Bellamy half-smiled, half-grimaced, and finished his beer. A wife saying "We need to talk" is bad news to the seasoned husband.

"Are you enjoying that beer, Ponder?" Johanna said, sweetly. "I'm _so_ gled."

"We weren't expecting you back before the weekend." Ponder said.

"Thet's obvious." she replied, curtly. She glowered at him.

"Errr… is anything wrong? What's happened?" he asked.

Johanna told him in very few words. They were short, sharp and descriptive.

"Oh, _hell_." he said. Mixed emotions surged.

Peter Bellamy patted him on the back.

"I'm afraid the next stage of your married life begins _here_ , old son." he said, the established father to the new man.

"And _you_ can stop being so smug about it, Peter Bellamy." Davinia said, sweetly. She rushed to embrace him.

* * *

So we're agreed, then." Lord Downey said, after a brief consultation with Mr Wimvoe, the Guild Bursar.

"The ladies will cease all strenuous physical activity according to medical advice. Matron Igorina's word on that will be final. Adequate cover will be provided as agreed. We will appoint other cover teachers and advance teaching assistants as required, as a matter of some urgency. Miss Sanderson-Reeves and Lady T'Malia have raised the issue of, er, _maternity pay_ and _maternity leave_. We have agreed this is a good thing in principle and that the Guild has a duty of care to meet the specific needs of three directly employed members. I will discuss plans for gratis payments with Mr Wimvoe, and we will present alternatives commensurate with what the Guild can afford."

"And write such provisions into staff contracts for _all_ current female staff. Make it legal. Get something in writing." Joan said, firmly. "Not me, obviously. I'm past all that sort of thing. But another teacher in my position may want to _adopt_. She needs a similar deal."

"Quite so, miss Sanderson-Reeves." Downey said, soothingly.

There was a silence.

"You know." Monsieur Le Balouard said, reflectively, "it would be damned interesting if a six or seven months pregnant Assassin managed to pull off a contract. That would be an all-time first!"

Lady T'Malia considered this.

"For goodness sake, do not repeat that _anywhere near_ Doctor Smith-Rhodes." she said. "If I know Johanna, she'd take it as a challenge and then go out and do it!"

* * *

 **(1)** For that irreducible minimum of legal purposes where she could not evade use of her married name. She had made it clear that the School was still going to know her as "Doctor Smith-Rhodes", for instance, despite Lord Downey feebly protesting that the custom was for a married woman to use her husband's name. Johanna had cited Sacharissa Cripslock and Adora Belle Dearheart as precedents, and scorned use of the compromise "Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons" as too unwieldy. Downey had not pressed the point. However, Johanna's mother, a woman who had clutched Ponder Stibbons to her breast as the only chance her daughter would get for something that passed for marital normality, very pointedly addressed her letters to "Mrs Johanna Stibbons". Johanna sighed and put up with this.

 **(2)** Rincewind has indeed been sent into the Neverglades. Refer to footnote on page 243 of _**Raising Steam**_ , which describes the Neverglade swamps and the local difficulties to be found there. It also notes Rincewind has been sent there by the University to report on the exact degree of cruelty and egregiousness to be found in the local geography. This could well be another case of me starting with a footnote and expanding brief mentions in canon …

 **(3)** _Op De Veldt Deze Nacht De Leeuw Geschikt.:_ he was a Howondalandian goblin, born in the settlement of Koboldsdorp in Rimwards Howondaland. Arriving in Ankh-Morpork to see the wider world, he'd got a job with a newly-married couple, one of whom appreciated a Vondalaans-speaking goblin. OK, it's the best rendition I can do in Afrikaans for _On The Veldt This Night The Lion Sleeps (_ In a multilingual society, the goblin's Xhosa name was _"Wimowe")._

 **(4)** Johanna's pet dogs had added to his woes. Kaffee and Crème knew better than to investigate the border plants. But Ridgebacks are still territorial creatures and don't take kindly to intruders. _Dogs know_.

 **(5)** Advert: read my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible**_ , which introduces Davinia Bellamy.

 **(6)** Think Quebec and French-Canadian. Mlle le Badin-Boucher is introduced in _**The Prospectus**_ as a senior student with a few little cultural quirks involving ice-skates, maple syrup and informal lumberjacking. Her Quirmian dialect also entranced Emmanuelle, who appreciated all the little demotic touches un-known in her own Quirm City.

 _ **Hyperemesis gravidarum** : _the state of persistent morning sickness in pregnant women _  
_


	2. Family Business

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate.**_

 _18 Spa Lane, Ankh._

Johanna rested her aching feet and sighed. Once upon a time it had all seemed so _simple._ Ponder had proposed to her in the aftermath of the Battle of the Tobacco Farm. **(1)** Of course she'd said "yes". Several hundred feet up on a magic carpet, there had been an aching, perfect, moment of romance. And besides, it was where they'd both been heading ever since the afternoon they'd first met in Hide Park. **(2)**

She had then, even more perfectly, been able to introduce him to her parents as her intended husband, and thanks to her friend Ruth N'Kweze, even had an engagement ring to show off. Her mother had shrieked with delight, wept with joy, and embraced Ponder to herself with complete and total acceptance. Her father had grunted in a very non-committal sort of a way. But thanks to her journalist cousin Suki van der Graaf, news of the battle and the defused border conflict had reached Home before she did. All the major newspapers were carrying stories. She had glimpsed the headlines on the front pages of the ones her father brandished under her nose, demanding to know what she called _this_ then, hey? Don't you think we _worry_ about you, girlie?

The bear-like Andreas Smith-Rhodes had then loomed over his prospective son-in-law.

"You were there too, boy?" he said, in heavily accented and unfamiliar Morporkian. He read out extracts from Suki's purple prose, about the brave wizard who had confronted a whole Matabeleian impi and sent fireball after fireball and spell after spell into their midst, before plunging into unarmed combat with a huge spear-carrying warrior, using his wizard's staff like a knobkerrie. Ponder winced, knowing the truth had been different. Far different.

Andreas, known as Barbarossa, had then glowered at Ponder from a far greater height.

"Were you _frightened,_ boy?" he asked, in a softer voice. Ponder, who at that moment was utterly terrified, had decided truth was the only way forward.

"Yes, sir." he said. "Completely, totally, scared witless."

Barbarossa scrutinised him, then roared with laughter. He slapped Ponder hard on the shoulder.

"Man, we are _all_ scared in bettle!" he said. "But you stood with my girl here. You did not ebendon her. You fought. You helped _win._ Welcome to my home, son-in-law!"

Then there had been an official reception for the victors of the Tobacco Fields. Suki's stories for home consumption had slanted it so that it had been a massive, telling, victory for Rimwards Howondaland, admittedly with a little assistance from Ankh-Morpork. Johanna and Ponder, who knew the truth was different, had then been subjected to a State Reception from the shrewd and elderly StaadtsPraesident. Along with her distant cousin Julian Smith-Rhodes and the surviving men he had commanded, awards had been conferred, and the thanks of a grateful nation bestowed upon them. Ponder, awarded the Howondaland Cross in Silver ("you're merrying one of our girls. Thet gives you _citizenship_ of this country end a right to wear its medels, Gods know you deserve one!") had accepted with modest reticence. He had, she reflected, been happiest to spend most of a day in the Department of Magic and Wizardry at Witwatersrand University, passing on the fraternal best wishes of Unseen University and making professional contacts. **(3)**

Part of the gratitude expressed by her nation had been a large amount expressed in gold _Burgerrands_. Paid into her account at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, it had enabled them to buy 18 Spa Lane with enough left over for furnishing the place.

A deciding factor in buying 18 Spa Lane had been the fact her Guild colleague Doctor Davinia Bellamy lived two doors down at Number Fourteen. The houses here weren't mansions like those on Scoone Avenue, nor did they have the same large rambling grounds, but they were big enough for a large family plus servants, and by the usual Ankh-Morporkian standard, the gardens were big. Johanna appreciated the space. She also appreciated Davinia being nearby. The two worked closely together in the Guild School and comprised its Department of Natural Sciences. Ponder just appreciated the idea of being on the other side of the river to Unseen University. Even Mustrum Ridcully would be hard-put to shout so loudly that Ponder could hear him at home.

The University Faculty had passed a change in Lore by a majority vote, to enshrine the new wisdom that Wizards could marry and continue in the Profession – provided that they had no more than seven children, are we making ourselves abundantly clear here and do we really need to spell it out?

A Conclave – effectively a referendum of all graduate wizards – had ratified the decision with something like a seventy per cent vote in favour. Older wizards who grumbled about diluting the magical flux, about contact with women rendering you no good for magic, and about it making hairs grow in the palms of your hands, were forced to realise that there were a far greater number of younger wizards around these days, who didn't see any reason why they should grow up into celibate, embittered, lonely old men.

And so Ponder and Johanna had married. Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur had shyly said they wanted to offer a wedding gift of their own, lassie. What if we get some more of the Feegle, and we craw-step you all to Howondaland, spare you a five-week sea voyage? Lord Vetinari had at first demurred, wanting to use the craw-step selectively for the awe and consternation of other Discworld nations. Anything that got people _anywhere_ inside half-an-hour, he argued, should be used sparingly and selectively. But he was prepared to make an exception, just this _once_. Provided you invite me. A pleasant afternoon and evening in a sunny clime would be a welcome break from business.

Vetinari had then spent a lot of the wedding reception in quiet discussion with people like the StaadtsPraesident and senior politicians such as Charles Smith-Rhodes, who was ostensibly on private business attending a family wedding. Indeed, the guest-list from Ankh-Morpork had ensured the kirk at Piemburg had not seen such a gathering as this in all its three hundred years.

She smiled at the memory. But then it was back to Ankh-Morpork and married life. Gillian Lansbury had taken over Raven House and moved into her old apartment there. Johanna had been genuinely sad to end that association and close that part of her life. A lot of the girls had wept too. But now she had her evenings free and didn't need to be a sort of surrogate mother to a lot of girls. No more dorm checks at midnight. A chance for unbroken sleep at nights. Visiting Gillian in the old apartment had been a wrench. It was now all tasteful watercolours on the wall. An artist's easel by the window. Paints and palletes. Reproductions of Old Masters. Gillian's pet cats. Reminders it wasn't hers any more. _But Gillian gets the midnight dorm checks. And the nights when there's an emergency at one or two in the morning. Or if a girl absconds and ends up in the Master's Office, and he demands your presence at three am. Her problems now._

A different set of problems had begun for Johanna and needed resolving.

* * *

Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead stood the regulation three paces in front of Peter Bellamy in the Tanty's Life Prisoners' Wing corridor. There was a tense moment as Assistant Governor and a very big thickset convict with nothing to lose met each other's eyes. Then Bushyhead extended a hand.

"Mr Bellamy, sir, we're all made up for you and Mrs Bellamy, like."

They shook hands.

"Right, that." another con agreed.

"A proper lady, Mrs Bellamy." said another.

"Yes. Her flower arranging nights are _fabulous_!" agreed prisoner Gorgeous George.

There was a pause. George was an accepted part of the prison scene. You just needed to, you know, _adjust_.

"Another kiddie on the way, and that. I expect you'll be wanting a daughter, sir?" Bushyhead asked.

"Son or daughter. Daughter'd be nice, though." Peter said, accepting the good wishes. For a few moments officer and prisoners were all on the same side. Peter knew Davinia was well thought of by the cons. It made life a little easier. And he had no fears when she led her evening classes here. Assassin black spoke for itself.

Busheyhead coughed, slightly embarrassed, and produced something from behind his back. Peter normally tensed when a con did that. But with Joe…

He handed over an envelope.

"On behalf of the Guild of Lags and Lifers, Mr Bellamy, sir. Congratulations card, like. All the lads what are currently inside have signed it."

* * *

Aunt Friejda had swept in to inspect the new house and see everything was in order. Johanna liked her aunt. But she was wife to Rimwards Howondaland's Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork. And she had high expectations.

Uncle Pieter had slipped off somewhere, taking Ponder with him. From the clanking of ill-disguised bottles, Johanna guessed beer was to be drunk in some secluded wife-free space. She sighed.

"Everything needs a thorough _clean_ , Johanna! And you could pay attention to a little redecoration in these reception rooms and corridors."

Johanna said something non-committal about finding the time. Aunt Friejda had frowned deeply.

"Get the servants to….." she paused. "Johanna. Something is telling me that you haven't engaged any servants yet?"

"Well…. no?"

She and Ponder had been coming home from work every night and cooking for themselves, enjoying the freedom and the newness of it all. A laundry service dealt with bedding and clothing. They had agreed the servant issue could wait.

"This _will not do_ , Johanna!" her aunt barked.

And a day or so later, a group of black servants appeared on the doorstep, having been escorted by guards from the Embassy.

"Please, baas-lady." said the senior servant. "Baas-Lady Friejda, she send us. To be your house-servants."

Johanna turned to the guard who had escorted.

"Personally selected, ma'am!" he confirmed, handing over a letter. "On detached service! Orders of Her Ladyship."

Johanna winced. She realised she now had a domestic staff, whether she wanted one or not, nominally Embassy employees but detached to serve her household. Her uncle's note apologised for not having been able to prevent Friejda, she was determined Johanna should be able to live in comfort as befitted her social status, so could she, Johanna, put up with it for now? Also, these Embassy employees are on the following pay scale appropriate for black staff which sums up to _this_ amount per month, if you can reimburse the Embassy at regular intervals.

Her aunt's rather longer note described the servants, their competences, and that they should be found rooms of some sort, ideally later on in a wholly separate building well away from the main house. She, Johanna, might wish to give some thought to this.

She breathed hard.

"Okay." she finally said to the submissive but expectant black faces. "Come on inside."

And thus the household acquired servants.

* * *

With full access to the Lapoignard cash assets, Emmanuelle had also been house-hunting. Maurice had accepted that the family needed a town house in the City, which in Emmanuelle's condition should be within reasonable proximity to the unparalleled maternity facilities at the Lady Sybil. She therefore had full access to the cash and a free hand.

Emmanuelle was learning a new Morporkian idiom. She had discovered that _estate agent_ was Morporkian for _unscrupulous greedy lying bastard_. It was beginning to annoy her. She knew she still had a good six months before she _had_ to hand over Black Widow House to a new Housemistress. The grace-and-favour apartment that went with it would also have to go and unless she did something about it now, when she had the time and the leisure, she would technically be homeless. At least Maurice had the money and could see the logic of a Lapoignard residence in the city. In extremis, she could use her own cash. Assassination was a well-paid career, after all, and a second career as a Gambler had augmented the pot. But now she finally _had_ the family money, she was determined to spend a substantial slice of it, if only to spite the shade of her mother-in-law. And nobody could say it was not going to be invested wisely, in property.

But the properties she had been shown and the differences between what the estate agents described in their so-optimistic material, and what she actually _saw_ … if she wasn't already somewhat cynical about the world, she could well become so after this experience.

She sighed, and addressed the ginger tea. At least the morning sickness had diminished as her body adjusted to the new demands being made on it. But she knew this was still only the beginning.

Her teaching assistants had worked with her in a class that morning. Both Gareth and Catherine had seen what she was refusing to accept, that as the shape of her body changed and her centre of balance shifted with her growing belly, the physical aspects of swordplay were becoming harder and harder. Her movements were just beginning to become clumsy and inelegant.

"Madame, perhaps the moment is approaching when you should retire from active participation in the lessons?" Gareth had suggested, with his usual tact and fine choice of words. Catherine had supported him, pointing out a single slip with a live blade could be dangerous, and more so as the child inside her grew with the months. And she had nurtured both her assistant teachers since they had come to her attention as exceptional students. They respected her and she trusted them.

She sighed again. The girls of Black Widow House were all excited by the pregnancy of their Housemistress. For some reason they were viewing the child as the Black Widow House Baby and were intensely supportive and even protective of her. Igorina had suggested this be encouraged and they were kept fully informed. It would educate them about pregnancy, and the _less_ attractive aspects, if carefully managed, would act as a deterrent against them trying it for themselves. **(4)**

 _Well, at least when the time arrives I will not be short of potential babysitters. This may be no bad thing._

All she had to do was to train Antoinette to take over the House. She approved of the Black Council's choice of successor. Antoinette de Badin-Boucher had been an above-average student with many interesting and entertaining character quirks. She had stayed on after Graduation as a teaching assistant in the Quirmian department, and took a specialised module in _La Quirmienne Comme Elle Se Parle À L'Acerie, Ehhh._ Emmanuelle had been entranced by Quirmian as spoken in Aceria, recognisably her own native language yet full of its own little quirks and idioms. She suspected teaching Antoinette placed her in the same position as a Sto Kerrigian discovering how same-but-different the Howondalandian version of the language was: the same principle applied. **(5)** Time and distance changed the language spoken in a colony.

She was teaching Antoinette the formal duties and the informal skills to succeed as Housemistress, so that the succession would go without a hitch. Her understudy was a fast learner, and having been a boarding student, was well aware of the usual tricks and tests and pitfalls of the job. She had, after all, regularly absconded as a pupil. Now her role was to be poacher-turned-gamekeeper. And, if possible, to wean herself off excessive use of _sacrées,_ which Emmanuelle had discovered was the extensive lexicon of swear words and demotic Quirmian expressions used exclusively in Aceria. Monsieur le Balouard winced at them. They amused Emmanuelle immensely. Swearing in metropolitan Quirm largely revolved around sexual and scatological terms, with a little bit drawn from religion. In Quirmian Aceria, the opposite applied. To Emmanuelle, the _tabernac_ was merely a part of the temple where the priests stored holy items, _les sacrements_ , for use in the service. To Antoinette, the words were explosive expletives for use on their own, or as modifiers in complex phrases denoting annoyance, frustration and irritation. Hearing her exclaim _"Om, Astorie, et le Grand Dieu Offlère!"_ left the listener in no doubt whatsoever that Mlle de Badin-Boucher was _extremely_ put out. **(6)** _Merde_ was mere punctuation, by comparison. Or, as Antoinette spelt and pronounced the word, _Marde_.

This fascinated the girls, who listened intently and attempted to work the new words and phrases into their spoken Quirmian. Their teachers sought to discourage this. Parents expected their children at the School to learn unimpeachable metropolitan Quirmian in a good accent. Those who had looked up or asked the meaning of phrases like " _Toton,_ _j'vais te décalisser la yeule, calice!"_ **(7)** had gone on to complain to M. le Balouard, or other senior representatives of the School.

Emmanuelle felt, all things considered, that Black Widow House was being passed to a worthy successor. She had been Antoinette's house-teacher for seven years and had consequently had to deal with the fall-out. For instance, ice-skating in the Pork Futures Warehouse; Antoinette had very reasonably said it was a large flat empty space which had frozen over and was ideal for the purpose, her school _did_ teach her how to pick locks and get in and out of places without leaving a trace; and perhaps the owners should rent it out for skating, they were missing a trick there? There had been informal lumberjacking for firewood during a very cold winter. The Watch had been puzzled to find only tree stumps where fine old trees should have been. _That_ had taken some soothing over. And the business with maple syrup tapped from trees in Hide Park. Emmanuelle shook her head, amused. Antoinette had been an antidote to an otherwise potentially dull life. She thought of other memories, like the trouble Catherine Perry-Bowen had caused. **(8)** Catherine, too, had graduated and matured into a very capable teaching assistant. She felt proud of that. And, _alors_ , it was all coming to its end. But they had been good years. She felt reconciled, if not _ready_ , for motherhood. A good nanny, then a good governess, meant it did not need to occupy _too_ much of her time after the confinement. She could get back in shape for swords, then.

She finished her tea, and steeled herself for renewed battle with the accursed lying _merde_ of estate agency.

* * *

Things had settled down again at 18 Spa Lane. Johanna had conferred with Ponder, and the domestic staff had been housed in top-floor bedrooms. She now had to deal with staff management. Dorothea, an older Xhosa woman, was now the cook, treating the kitchen as her domain. The house-boy Simeon served as all-purpose worker and backroom boy, going where he was needed. An older man, Cyprian, worked as gardener, boiler-stoker and general porter. There was Claude, a dignified middle-aged man who served meals with quiet competent dignity. And she had two house-maids, Blessing and Eve.

Aunt Friejda had insisted she should have a lady's maid. This had fallen to Eve, by default. Johanna found this a mixed blessing. She also found it hard to explain to her friend Ruth N'Kweze when she called round.

"Well, at least you're paying them properly." Ruth had said, grudgingly.

It was true. Johanna had spoken to Ponder. They had agreed. Lional Keble had been consulted and asked what the appropriate pay-scales were for domestic staff in Ankh-Morpork. They had turned out to be a lot more than the Rimwards Howondaland government thought appropriate for black staff in domestic service.

"Noblesse oblige." Johanna had said. She had called the staff together, and explained that she intended to run a relaxed house where _most of the time_ apartheid law would not apply. This required their co-operation. She would continue to reimburse the Embassy for their _official_ pay. But she would also, informally, pay the difference between that and the accepted Ankh-Morpork rate. As long as they were working for her, in a foreign city where foreign law applied and there was no such thing as apartheid, this was only right and proper. _But the Embassy must not know about this and it should remain our secret._

And if anyone official, or anyone from the Embassy comes here, apartheid law, regrettably, applies. She hoped they understood.

She had also asked for help in managing, if not a _brigade_ of servants, then at least a half-platoon. Lady Sybil Ramkin had patted her hand reassuringly and sent Willikins round to assess and make reccomendations. The veteran butler had watched, then called the staff together and spoken firmly to each of them for as long as it took.

Johanna absented herself during his pep-talk. She caught the tail-end of words spoken to Claude.

"You're the nearest thing they've got to a butler, right? And I don't know what they teach you in Howondaland, but I'm telling you now that being _of service_ is not to be confused with being _servile_. You can take pride in what you do and you are doing it out of free choice, not because you have been _told_ to do it. You have got five other people to manage, right, and you report back to Mr and Mrs Stibbons. Don't forget they are new to this, and they are depending on _you_ to make it work. Do not let them down. Come to me with any worries!"

Willikins had smiled reassuringly at her.

"I believe everything's straight and tidy now, ma'am." He said. "You have the makings of a good butler there, if I may say so. Signed him up into the Guild. We can get the bad habits out of him, and help make him _better_!"

Johanna was pleasantly surprised at how things improved after Willikins' intervention. And that she'd acquired an efficient and loyal domestic staff.

Apart, perhaps, from Eve. She suspected that freed from the petty tyranny of apartheid, the natural personalities of her staff were emerging. And Eve, whilst a good worker and attentive to her needs, was developing a rather _snarky_ personality. **(9)** She suspected Ruth N'Kweze had been talking to her. Even though her house-staff were Xhosa and Bantu, from two tribes that treated Zulus with suspicion and a certain dislike, Ruth was not above trying to "raise their consciousness" about working as servants to whites. Ruth was always treated with pointedly correct service during her visits.

And then the clacks messages from the university began to arrive, couriered over by messengers who waited patiently for Ponder to compose a reply.

"He's not coping well, is he?" Ponder said, with sympathy.

"He's a bleddy nuisance." Johanna said, frankly. "Ponder, _don't you dare_ go back to the University! You said _yourself_ thet not living in the places we work would be good for _both_ of us. Mr Ridcully is going to hev to learn to fend for himself, now you're only there for eight hours a day!"

But the messages kept coming.

Johanna sighed. She went to speak to Adora Belle Dearheart. Who recommended doing what she'd done herself at Scoone Avenue.

"Got some good people." she said, drily. "remember that business in Howondaland you helped sort out? You know the goblins there elected to stay on and see if they could make a go at it, they've started raising families now, built their own town? Well, some of them have come back. They'd jump at a chance to work for you. They think of you as one of their liberators. Interested?"

Johanna knew Adora was channelling a lot of her energy into goblin causes these days, as Golems became more and more self-reliant and didn't need her so much. Her passion for justice for golems had become, in equal measure, one of justice for goblins.

And 18 Spa Lane acquired a family of goblins, with Howondaland-born children, who lived in the cellar, created a network of climbing ladders inside a disused chimneystack, and built the clacks tower on the roof. 95% of the traffic was to and from the University.

And life settled down again.

Until Johanna went on a mission to the Neverglades Swamps and discovered she was expecting a baby.

* * *

Miss Maccalariat frowned, disapprovingly.

"Airmail is _faster_ , you know." she said, angling her glasses so as to meet Johanna's eyes. "The Klatchian carpet service can have this letter in Howondaland inside _three days_. I really would have thought a young woman in your position, wanting to give the glad news to her own _mother,_ would want the news there as quickly as possible!"

Johanna, who preferred the five-week surface mail option for this glad news, meekly insisted on surface mail postage. She knew her mother would be writing practically daily with reams of good advice to her pregnant oldest daughter. Her sister Agnetha, mother of five of her own so far, would also not be able to resist the temptation to send unwanted advice laced with sisterly snark of the " _I bet you thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?"_ variety.

No, she wanted to delay this for as long as possible.

She held out against the Maccalariat, with an effort, and finally won surface mail postage. She could now appreciate why the Guild did not accept contracts on the Maccalariat family. Davinia had remarked that Dame Amorine Maccalariat, the Tanty's feared governor, had been unusually helpful to Peter and had offered her own support and comfort to Mrs Bellamy in the time of her need. Davinia was wondering how to turn it down, without giving offence.

And now she was sitting in her living room with aching feet. As she got more visibly pregnant, her balance was shifting and it was showing in her legs and feet. Johanna heard a tutting nose.

"This you _need_ , baas-lady."

It was Eve. She knelt, lifted Johanna's legs, and removed her boots and socks, ignoring protest. A steaming bowl of hot water was pushed into place and her feet dropped into it.

"It's OK, Johanna. I told her to do it."

Johanna looked into the serious face of her younger sister Mariella, a pupil at the Guild school.

"Ja. Young Madam here was _most_ insistent." Eve said. "I agree with her."

"You're in league." Johanna said. "Plotting."

"For your own good, baas-lady."

"And don't call me _baas-lady_." Johanna said. " _Madam_ will do."

"As you wish, Madam." said Eve. Mariella knelt beside her.

"Barring accidents, you _do_ know this is likely to happen to you too, one day?" Johanna said, sternly. Mariella smiled.

"I do. That's why I'm watching you now."

"I can send you back to the School." Johanna warned. "Being here in the evenings is a privilege."

"Did I tell you mother knows?" Mariella said, seemingly having not heard. Johanna winced.

"Who told her?" she demanded. "It wasn't _you_ , was it?"

"Auntie Friejda mentioned it to her. Mother wrote to me. Airmail. She asked if I see you, and how you are." Mariella admitted. Johanna counted slowly to ten.

"I'd write back if I was you."

"errr. To know she does need. A right she has." Ponder said, in awkward Vondalaans. He'd been following the conversation as best he could. Johanna grudgingly admitted he was getting better at it.

"Get me pen and paper." Johanna said, sighing. "And an envelope."

* * *

 **(1)** Another advert: see my story _**Bungle in the Jungle**_.

 **(2)** Another advert. Refer to my story _**Nature Studies.**_

 **(3)** Where he had discovered, by complete coincidence, the Director was a Professor van der Rintzwijnd.

 **(4)** This was the Guild School's strategy concerning sex education – keep them sufficiently informed with as much carefully chosen detail as possible, so that they're both educated _and_ scared off from trying it.

 **(5)** new Sto Kerrigian pupils had been sent to Johanna Smith-Rhodes, on the grounds that Kerrigian and Vondalaans were mutually intelligible, if strange to each other's ears.

 **(6)** Really true. Look up French-Canadian swearing sometime. It's almost unknown in France but use of such religious-derived terms is really shocking in Quebec. The French cliché of _Sacre Bleu_! starts you off, but _Tabernak!_ is at the other, Richter scale 9.5, end of Francophonic swearing. _Jésus, Marie, et Joseph!_ In Quebec is no, for instance, like an older Irish person would weight the phrase. It carries a lot more charge. I've substituted Discworld gods and personages.

 **(7)** "You, sir/madam are a dolt and I intend to deliver a sound thrashing!" Insert English expletives of choice where appropriate.

 **(8)** Yet another advert. See my story _**Nothing Like A New Pair of Eyes.**_

 **(9).** Yes. That South African cartoon strip "Madam and Eve" again. Boer woman and a native maid who does not always behave with the correct degree of respect and servility. Couldn't resist it. Thanks again to Nimbus Llewellyn.


	3. Complications

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that no actual murder happened at all and it was down to sloppy record-keeping, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down.**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork.**_

 _18 Spa Lane, Ankh._

It was black, leathery, slightly sticky to the touch and smelt of dark dank places. Johanna winced and steeled herself. The taste wasn't completely unpleasant. It was mainly reminiscent of elderly mushrooms, the sort which, when a day or two past their best, manage to shrivel and go slightly slimy at the same time. It had overtones of garlic. Perhaps a hint of deep-down mined treacle. There was a deep earthy smell reminiscent of gardener's peat moss. This carried over to the taste.

She tried to make herself think of it as an exotic _biltong_ from an animal not normally used for the purpose, put it in her mouth, and forced herself to chew. She shuddered, but at the same time felt the beginnings of a delicious all-over bodily shudder as something deep inside her acknowledged that this was _exactly_ what she needed. She wondered if this was how an addict felt when getting the hit.

She chewed. It was just her bad luck that her taste buds had been out-voted by all her other bodily systems when the pregnancy craving had come along. And she decided that when all this was over she would never, ever, absolutely never, touch a Klatchian Migratory Bog Truffle again, so long as she lived.

The craving had come along towards the end of the third month. It had begun as an indefinable sense of something missing from her diet. The specific something had been hard to pin down. Davinia, the experienced mother, had warned her that a craving of some sort would inevitably come along. It was just a matter of finding out what it was _for_ and then accepting the inevitable.

Davinia herself had developed a craving for spearmint leaves. Gods damn her. Johanna loved the taste and savour of mint. She'd have been _happy_ with a mint craving. But trying to work it out with Ponder, they'd got as far as hazarding a guess that maybe it was something in the mushroom or edible fungus line. Dorothea, the cook, had toured produce markets, bringing back new and different sorts of edible mushroom for the baas-lady to try. Davinia Bellamy had found samples of some rarer ones. Agatean Oyster Mushrooms had been promising, but her body still craved something, and couldn't tell her what it was.

And then Ponder had taken her to lunch at an upscale Quirmian restaurant. Emmanuelle de Lapoignard had joined them, and the two expectant mothers had traded their respective woes about pregnancy, work, domestic life and having to let their weapons-belts out by yet another notch. Ponder had asked for another bottle of Quirmian beer and left them to it.

"I tell you, _chère amie_. It is already hard to keep my sword belt up and in place. The ferrule of my scabbard drags at the ground. It is getting _scratched_." Emmanuelle complained.

She sipped her wine **.(1)** Johanna scowled down at the flavoured mineral water which she had been told **(2)** would be as strong as it would get for nine months.

Ponder kept silent. He had tentatively suggested that, just perhaps, in the circumstances, they could, er, leave the weapons-belts off, as they were getting harder and harder to fasten and retain in place and this was only going to get worse as the months wore on. Surely the Guild would understand, and make allowances?

No, he wasn't going to raise _that_ one again. He shuddered at the reaction he'd provoked.

And there had been a hint of a smell in the air, fighting for attention in a thousand other food smells. She had known instinctively that _this_ was the one. Heightened senses picked out the one suddenly delicious smell. It seemed to come from several tables away. The _maitre d'_ was discreetly summoned. Emmanuelle spoke to him in Quirmian. Both looked at Johanna. The Head Waiter took in her pregnancy bulge and nodded, understanding.

"May I recommend, for madame, the _pommes de terre boulangere avec des cepes fricassées_ "?

Johanna had nodded, comprehending only that there were potatoes and perhaps mushrooms in it.

And when it arrived at the table, she was slightly disappointed to note that all the _avec_ heralded a plate of lightly sautéd sliced potatoes arranged around a sauce speckled with black blobs and shavings. Exquisitely arranged fried potato slices, certainly, fried just so, and precisely served on the plate in a way that said "this is going to cost you, _mon ami_ ", with a side of exquisitely shaped mounds of spinach, another vegetable she had never been ecstatic to see on her plate. It also occurred to her that Spud _-You-Might-Like_ , a new proletarian eaterie on Peach Pie Street, would serve you recognisably the same for a lot less money, albeit not as beautifully presented. The _cepes fricassées,_ on examination, were pretty much what you'd get on a Full Morporkian Breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, only with exotic mushrooms that she suspected were going to cost her thirty times as much. Johanna had always suspected her tastes inclined to proletarian. But she sighed, thanked Emmanuelle for her consideration, and set to.

Vegetarian food with no meat anywhere was a foreign concept in Rimwards Howondaland. Culinary philosophy at home held that you piled your plate high with as much named meat as possible, even if the meat had names like _boerewois_ , _vleis, bobotie, ostrich, skilpadjies, sosetie,_ or _droëwors._

But she knew, deep down, that something on her plate was exactly what her body had been screaming at her to provide. The sensation of relief even overcame the intermittent taste of something horrible in her mouth, something unspeakable, something that was a harsh note among the rather bland flavours of the vegetables.

At Ponder's prompting, she tried to analyse what the agent was, taking things in small single notes. The mushrooms were strongly flavoured and went part of the way. But with a mounting sense that the universe was playing a practical joke in her, she narrowed it down to the black speckles and shavings in the béarnaise sauce, otherwise bland and buttery.

"Ah, _oui_." Emmanuelle said, observing. "I believe that is _le_ _truffe_ _migrateur_ _klatchien_ _hors_ _de la tourbière, chère amie._ "

Johanna looked politely blank. Ponder frowned.

"A sort of truffle? From Klatch ? "

Emmanuelle clapped her hands, delightedly, and praised him on his Quirmian comprehension.

"You have a cultured husband, _chère amie._ " she said, with approval.

Johanna, with mixed feelings about the bad taste and the surge of endorphins that was sweeping her along, frowned suspiciously. She knew her old friend's sense of humour, and suspected they had only got a partial translation.

The Head Waiter was summoned again and another Quirmian conversation ensued, with side glances at Johanna and Ponder. He went to the kitchen, reappearing again with a depressingly small jar of black blobby things swimming in some sort of preserving oil or brine, set on a silver salver with a doily underneath it. He set this down at Johanna's side with a flourish that spoke the word " _Voila!"_ loudly. It was very specialised mime artistry of a sort only ever seen in expensive restaurants. it would have won awards at the Fools' Guild.

"I believe, Madame, that _la Comptesse_ has identified the substance you require to assist you through your _condition de la grossesse soif_." he said, gravely. He stood back, expectantly.

" _Une grossesse soif_ is what you would call a craving in pregnancy." Emmanuelle translated, helpfully.

"Fortunately, the chef had a sufficiency in the kitchen, and we would be pleased to sell you a quantity of the foodstuff in question." The Head Waiter added, smoothly. "It will appear as an item on _l'addition_ at the end of your meal."

Johanna checked the label on the jar. It was in Quirmian and announced the contents were the produce of the Trousseau _trufficulturie_ from the Vaucluse _département_ of Quirm, and had been pronounced as fit and unadulterated by the _Bureau des Appelations Contrôlées de Quirm (section des truffes)._

Ponder read the unspoken subtext and a certain _expectancy_ on the part of the Head Waiter, and sighed inside. Ah well. He _was_ Vice-Chancellor of the University and benefited from a salaried position with tenure. _Several_ salaried positions with tenure, in fact. Many unpopular and unwanted academic positions had been voted to him by the lazier members of the Faculty, who hadn't stopped to reflect that quite a few of them carried cash bequests and stipends. In many cases they reflected the cost of living of several centuries ago, had never seen a Review Board to update the salary rate, and if he had to rely on only _one_ of them for a living wage, he'd be in desperate trouble. But the accumulation of twenty or thirty sub-living-wage stipends was a different story entirely. **(3)**

Therefore he could tip the maitre d' with a ten dollar note and request another one went to the Head Chef, without too many winces.

"Obligé, monsieur le mage." The Head Waiter said, spiriting the notes away and bowing gracefully.

"Noblesse oblige." Ponder said, awkwardly, to his two dining companions. Both smiled and assured him he had done the correct thing.

But this was slightly before he was presented with one of the most expensive restaurant bills he'd ever seen in his life. Most of it down to that one absurdly small jar of Klatchian Migratory Bog Truffles. Emmanuelle commiserated, and chipped in five hundred dollars as her share of the bill, forty to cover her meal and the rest being a gesture to one of her dearest friends in the time of her need. She didn't mind the expense: after all, her mother- in-law was paying, may the Gods speed her soul to its appropriate post-mortem destination. Johanna looked at the bill, saw the implications, and winced. _Ag, they said motherhood is expensive…._

"I don't suppose _you've_ developed a craving, Emmie?" she said, pointedly.

Emmanuelle-Marie les Deux-Epées, Comptesse de Lapoignard, smiled contentedly.

"Only to fine wine and good cheroots, _chère amie_ ". she said, contentedly.

Johanna glared at her. Emmanuelle shrugged.

"My _mèdecin_ said it will be alright." she said, mildly. "He pointed out many generations of Quirmian women have smoked and drunk wine in moderation during pregnancy, and the children are born perfectly normally and are healthy. You see, Johanna? I have taken medical advice, and I am content to go with what my doctor recommends!" **(4)**

* * *

As the three diners left the restaurant and hailed a cab, across the city Lord Havelock Vetinari looked up and frowned. Even today, over two years on from the business in the Shires and the Battle of the Tobacco Farm, there were still loose ends to be tidied up from the whole wretched business. Gravid Rust was dead, as was his father. Lady Regina Rust had inherited the family title. He now had to contend with her presence at City Council meetings. He was only partly comforted by the fact she had three younger sisters, all of whom were graduates of the Guild of Assassins and all of whom were as power-crazed as the old Latatian noble ladies. And with the same sort of family values that saw siblings as inconvenient obstacles to advancement.

Lucinda was in exile on a distant tropical island following her part in the tobacco farm business. He could trust the Guild of Assassins to ensure she remained there. But that left two Rusts with a Guild education. He wondered how long Regina would hold the title. Her education predated the admission of girls to the Guild School. She had had to be content with the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies. But the idea of dealing with Lady Deborah Rust was scarcely any better. Worse, in some respects.

He pondered the disputed area of the Shires. Vetinari was perfectly happy for it to go to Quirm. He would lose a little taxation revenue, that was true. But the whole area being under _somebody's_ undisputed control and hegemony would tidy the political map immeasurably. The problem was as always the Old Lords, who would be sure to react viscerally to Ankh-Morpork surrendering territory, as they saw it, without firing so much as a shot. And a war with Quirm over a hundred or so square miles was unthinkable. Why was it so difficult to get them to grasp that in this day and age, the colours of the flag that flew over a region were immaterial? Quirm depended on Ankh-Morpork, the economic superpower. The city could exert dominance in so many subtle ways regardless of whose flag flew. We didn't need the Shires. But the Shires needed firm and unambiguous government. Quirm could provide that, with its _gendarmerie_ that modelled itself on Samuel Vimes' City Watch, and be welcome.

The fact so many nations were involved had also un-necessarily complicated one issue. Vetinari had advocated for a fast, public, trial of the men captured on the Tobacco Farm, followed by quick, humane, and above all, _public,_ execution.

But the fifteen or so surviving slave guards were still here. Incarcerated for the moment in what he had been assured was a high-security prison in Quirm, as five nations squabbled still over who should try them and dispose of them. Ankh-Morpork felt it had an interest. As did Quirm. And Rimwards Howondaland. As did the three or four interim governments which had tried to make sense of and restore order to Matabeleland, that benighted chaotic state. Prince Gabriel was a sincere man who was doing his best, but Vetinari felt he was fighting a losing battle in trying to reform his nation. Some habits were too deeply engrained. And the Low Kingdom of the Dwarfs remained affronted that a deep-down people who preferred underground living had been subject to maltreatment and slavery.

Ankh-Morpork claimed an interest as the initial crime had happened in the Shires and had been uncovered due to persistent and diligent police work on the part of the Duke of Ankh. Ankh-Morporkian representatives had fought at the Tobacco Farm to defend the principle of freedom and liberty for goblins and to keep the slave overseers imprisoned to meet due Justice. Trying them in the City and hanging them at the Tanty was only right by way of closure.

Quirm claimed an interest as the initial crime had happened in the Shires – its territory, despite what Ankh-Morpork claimed - and such crimes were repugnant and a stain on the honour of Quirm. The criminals, when found guilty, would be briefly introduced to Madame Guillotine in the main square in Quirm City, so that justice might be seen to be done.

Rimwards Howondaland claimed it was their right to try and hang the criminals, as the slave farm had been established in its sovereign territory and was a black blot on their nation's honour.

Matabaleland pointed out the region in which the slave farm was established was disputed and could be seen as _its_ territory. A Royal Prince, now deceased, had been corrupted by the lure of easy money, and the new Prince Gabriel wished to expunge the shame and demonstrate to his own people that his reign represented a new era. Public execution of the criminals, both white and black, would be a salutary lesson to criminal elements in his own nation. The very public Execution Pits, with their unparalleled grandstands and terraces, were being held in readiness for this moment.

The Low Monarch had offered some of the Royal Dwarf Guard, who kept _very_ sharp axes, to act as executioners.

And while the debate rumbled on, the prisoners were in secure detention in Quirm. Vetinari had not been happy about this, suggesting the remote Rimwards Howondalandian offshore fastness of Gogga Island, from which no man had ever escaped. But the Quirmian Ambassador had smiled, and assured the other delegates that we have got _better_ …

The prisoners had been sent, not to the Bastille in Quirm City, but to the feared penal colony of Astfgl's Island, several miles off the Quirm coast. Merely _escaping_ from the island would be the start of a prisoner's woes. The nearest landfall was the Neverglades Swamps, a formidable wilderness, a Gods-forsaken region some claimed was left over from the Mage Wars and the Dark Wars of antiquity.

Having been assured by the Quirmians that the risk of any prisoners successfully escaping from Astfgl's Island was pretty nearly a million to one, Vetinari sat back, and decided he could do nothing until the inevitable happened.

And today he had received the confirmation of his fears. Four men, all slave guards from the Tobacco Farm, had escaped from Astfgl's Island.

He steepled his fingers and summoned Drumknott. There were people he needed to consult. And others who deserved to be warned.

* * *

Peter Bellamy, assistant governor and principal prison officer at the Tanty, put his copy of The _**Times**_ down, reached for his coffee mug, and shook his head. He felt eternally glad the Tobacco Farm Fifteen, a whole basket of political hot potatoes if ever he'd seen one, had not been committed to the Tanty. Working at just the level where the simple everyday duties of running a prison interfaced with satisfying political directives from the Administration, he had been aware they represented trouble for _somebody_ in his profession. He was uneasy about the whole idea of political prisoners, for one thing. He had been too young to have been in the Service at the time of Patricians Snapcase and Winder, but the old hands who had trained and educated him in the skills necessary to manage convicts had remembered those days. The Prison Service he had joined had been a miasma of bad habits and corruption left over from Snapcase days. Old hands had described, usually on night shifts, the shambling broken human wrecks released to them by the Cable Street Particulars, those unfortunate souls to whom Snapcase and Winder had "shown clemency" and commuted death sentences to life imprisonment, or long years of solitary confinement in the loathsome dungeon cells.

"Oh, not that a life sentence meant much more than a few weeks or months for most of them, lad." one old hand had said. "Not after Swing's boys were done with them. We just made it as easy as we could. Except for people like Bellyster."

That was over now, and most of the dungeon cells were used as storerooms, pantries, coldstores and other purposes. The prison laundry was housed down there. Only a few of the better underground cells were still in use, as punishment accommodation for recidivists.

Bellamy felt the usual fellow sympathy for the guards at Astfgl's Island, the ones who had slipped up and who would be carrying the can. He also put up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the God Of Prison Warders, if there was one, **(5)** that it hadn't happened _here_ , on his watch. He speculated on how it had happened. Guards who themselves had fouled up somewhere else and been sent on what was to them a punishment posting. Not the best human material to begin with. Who were then told, complacently, that the prison they staffed was impregnable. Who had then relaxed and got lazy. Poor management allowing them to get complacent. And so four prisoners watch, look for loopholes, plan, plot, and eventually steal a boat. Which along with the cons had not yet been found. And the crew of the boat, a skiff used to ferry supplies and the odd new inmate in, were also missing. Probably never to be found, the bodies weighted down and thrown overboard.

He sighed. If the politicians had only tried and hanged them straight away, instead of putting them on Death Row and haggling over who got to pull the hangman's lever and where. Or guillotined them. Or decapitated them. Or tied them to stakes in the Execution Pit, filled the pit with water to neck-height, and then released a shoal of man-eating fish who hadn't been fed for a week.

Desperate men with nothing to lose had been left to their own devices. Guards told to watch them for every second of the day had relaxed their vigilance after perhaps a year, maybe even, as inevitably happens, started to see them not as villainous criminal thugs but as human beings. Bribery? A guard who bonds with a prisoner, hears a plausible hard-luck story, and deliberately one night leaves a couple of doors unlocked, to give a fellow a fair go? It had happened. Bellamy found himself liking some of his cons as individuals. But you didn't make _friends_ with them. And you didn't leave men on Death Row for well over a year. That was asking for trouble.

No. Bellamy would have put them on lockdown as Category A prisoners on special measures. Alongside the child molesters, the rapists, and those Watchmen and prison officers who themselves had fallen from grace. Strict segregation, guards changed regularly. Only trusties allowed to bring food and laundry in and waste out.

Again he thought of Bellyster. A hated prison guard notorious for bullying, thuggery, pettiness and generally being nasty. Dismissed from the service and jailed himself by Vetinari, for aiding and abetting an escape. He'd been a nuisance to the smooth running of the Prison until he had successfully petitioned The Dame to let him out on a working party. Just to see open skies again, he had pleaded.

Sent on the traditional rock-breaking hard labour at a nearby quarry, a large quantity of rock higher up the cliff had mysteriously detached. Right above his head. Bellyster had indeed been broken by the rocks. The prison's Igor had pronounced death by crushing. Both the guards detailed to keep him safe from other cons had pronounced bafflement. Bellamy, remembering they too had been victims of Bellyster's bullying, had not pressed the point. Nobody else had been injured, after all. A cursory Watch investigation at first dismissed Bellyster's death as "suicide" but later amended it to "misadventure", for the look of the thing. The case had duly been closed and life for the Tanty community continued without too many ripples.

Peter Bellamy privately thought the escapees from the Island would be lucky to get past the Neverglades. Davinia had described her recent trip there. It did not sound like the kind of place for a family holiday. Even for a family where, in the case of the Bellamys, Mum was a fully licenced and articled Assassin and two out of three sons were Assassins' Guild School students.

He turned his mind to other things and asked for a chat with Probationary Officer Cullen to discuss a few little _concerns_. He wondered if Cullen was _fit_ to be a prison officer. Not his fault, poor chap, but there were worries.

* * *

Johana and Ponder were worried by the bills. She was wealthy, certainly, her career as Assassin having accumulated cash in her bank accounts and augmented by shrewd investments. Her other role as Zoo director also paid a modest stipend. She hadn't _wanted_ to take it, but the Zoo Trust had insisted, having pointed out to her that money had been set aside, it would unbalance the pay and differentials structure for Zoo employees if she didn't, and could she bank this draft for accumulated back pay at her earliest convenience? Ponder was a man who had let his wage packets pile up in a desk drawer, **(6)** having all his living expenses met gratis by the University and who had consequently had only occasional need of hard cash. His work at the H.E.M. and the need to be continually at Mustrum Ridcully's beck and call had meant he could plead he was too busy to open a bank account. Johanna had practically had to march him at crossbow point to the Royal Bank, with a borrowed Golem to escort quite a few thousand dollars of accumulated pay, pointing out that he'd _better_ make the bleddy time to open a deposit account.

But there it was in black and white on the page. The yearly costs of maintaining a staff of servants at current Ankh-Morporkian rates.

$AM 1680. Round that up to $1700. Costs of keeping them housed, fed and in decent clothing. Add another $300, perhaps. Two thousand a year. Money set aside if any of them require medical treatment. Mossy Lawn insists employers of domestic staff pay full cost. As well he should. Set aside $1500 in a contingency fund.

Our family of goblins. They don't cost much, but common decency dictates we pay them a wage of some kind. Eight goblins, dwelling in the cellar and sub-cellar. We keep them fed and provide such clothing and other essentials as they need. They seem happy with twenty dollars a month to be shared between them. And they know they can come to me if they're in genuine need. That's another $240 a year. $300, if you take sundries into account. money against their medical needs, whatever they might be for goblins.

Costs of essential upkeep of house and grounds… top floor of which is occupied by servants. I need to demonstrate to the Embassy that I am providing segregated living quarters for black staff, even though this is Ankh-Morpork where apartheid law does not apply. This keeps them happy and Verkramp off my case. I can do without BOSS complaining that I do not respect the Racial Separation Laws. And cellar, where not used for larders, cold-room and storage, and sub-cellar, the province of our Goblins. Ponder and I – and our child, and our house-guests when we have them, restricted to the two floors in between servants and goblins. In our own house. Ah well. Aunt Friejda meant well.

 _And now the ruinous cost of this verdamte pregnancy craving. Why can my body not crave something cheaper than those foul truffles at nearly eighteen hundred dollars for a small jar?_

"You're looking worried." Ponder said, sympathetically.

" _Ja._ Being merried, end running the sort of household thet other people think we should run, is not cheap. We could menege this life for perhaps five or six years, Ponder. But to be secure, I fear I will need to eccept a Guild contrect or two."

Ponder winced. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

"They ere not _ell_ to do with inhumation." she reminded him. "I cen pick up good money for security consultancy. Bodyguarding. Distraint werrents. Bomb disposal. Bounty-hunting."

"Bomb disposal." Ponder said, doubtfully. He'd once witnessed her dealing with a bottle of rogue wow-wow sauce at the University. The controlled detonation had still broken a lot of windows and brought down an insecure chimney stack. **(7)**

"Perfectly safe…" she paused. "Well, _safe_. If you know whet you ere doing."

"But even so…" he protested, feebly. "Does it have to be _now_?"

"Et Guild rates, it is still worth considering." she said. "End there must be a Guild contrect I cen consider, even while pregnant."

Ponder looked at his wife. Nearly four months in with a visible bulge beginning to show, Matron Igorina had ordered her to cease and desist from physical activities in her teaching at the Guild, and to be very careful and selective about the sorts of animal-wrangling she normally did at the Zoo.( **8)** He'd known her for long enough to know the signs of restlessness. And he was sensitive enough to be aware that living a quiet life, free from excessive physical activity, was driving her nuts.

"Well, it can do no harm to _look_ , I suppose." he said, reluctantly.

She smiled.

"Thenk you, Ponder" she said.

* * *

Commander Sam Vimes passed around the iconographs and the descriptions that had arrived from the Sûreté in Quirm. Commandant Fournier had apologised for the inconvenience, and lamented the fact that because the prison service, _le_ _Direction de l'Administration Pénitentiaire,_ had been so lax as to allow them to escape, the police force now had the task of capturing them for a _second_ time. He hoped it would not unduly spoil your day, Sam, but we have reason to believe that if the fugitives escape through the Neverglades, they may be heading your way.

"Makes sense." Vimes said. "Big city. They can disappear here. Go underground."

Captain Carrot studied the iconography, committing the face to memory.

"Rimwards Howondalandian." he said. "If nothing else, that's an accent that's hard to hide."

He passed the iconography along to Cheery Littlebottom. Vimes nodded acknowledgement.

"Has the Embassy been informed, sir?" Carrot asked. Vimes nodded.

"Yes. Ambassador van der Graaf wasn't happy. Said many unflattering things about the Quirmians. But he's sicking that little weasel Verkramp on it and has ordered the good Lieutenant to co-operate fully with us and to share any information his network of eyes and ears might pick up in the White Howondalandian community. Which brings to mind."

Vimes looked at Cheery.

"I hope you're keeping your axe sharp. This object du Plessis was heard in prison to mouth off threats against people he can identify as having been on the Tobacco Farm business. One such was, and I quote his words, _a bloody lawn-ornament with an axe._ You were the most prominent Dwarf there and he saw you face-to-face on a few occasions. Mr van der Graaf is also a subject of his dire threats. As are those _bleddy keffir women walking around as if they were white people._ By which I presume he means Sergeant Jolson and Miss Ruth N'Kweze."

"The Guild of Assassins have been informed, sir?" Angua von Uberwald asked.

"As priority." Vimes confirmed. "Especially since the scalp he _really_ wants is one with striking red hair. Who, according to reports, humiliated du Plessis by making him wash the crocks as if he were some sort of kaffir house-girl, then threw one in his face because she thought it hadn't been washed well enough. Something of a berserk button that got pressed there. He's hell-bent on making her pay for it."

"I was there." Cheery said. "Alice Band warned Johanna to watch her back around him. If there hadn't been a lot of sharp things pointing his way I really think he'd have gone for her there and then."

"Shame he didn't." Vimes said, drily. "And normally, Johanna is capable of having him for breakfast, gutted, dried, and smoked, like a piece of that bloody awful meat jerky they like so much."

" _Biltong_ , sir." Carrot offered. Vimes scowled.

"But right now, I would venture to think she's not _quite_ her usual self. Quite possibly, if I may use the unfamiliar word in conjunction with the name of Mrs Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, she is _vulnerable._ And she's a Watch Special."

Vimes paused to let this sink in.

"Despite being a bloody Assassin, she is also one of us. That matters."

"As are several other names on his hit-list. Inspector Pessimal. Cheery. Precious. Ruth." Angua said.

"So if this gentleman and his associates are coming here, we identify them. Find them. Pull them in. And they will not escape from MY cells. Put the word out!"

* * *

Lord Downey addressed the Dark Council. They had gathered to discuss the new threat.

"So we're agreed, then." he said. "There is a very clear and present danger to several Guild members from these men, who are possibly on the way here and vowing vengeance. They have nothing to lose so we can assume they are prepared to die trying to settle a perceived score. Which makes them dangerous."

"We also have to assume the greatest threat is to Johanna." Lady T'Malia said, gravely. "But Miss Band, Miss Wiggs, Miss van Kruger, the Comptesse de Lapoignard and Miss N'Kweze were also present and identifiable. Six people."

"I will authorize the following." Downey said. "The political situation dictates that if possible, these four men are to be neutralized, and brought in _alive_ to face justice at an international level. Inhumation must only be a very last resort. Shall we say. Ten thousand, without Guild tax, for each escaped criminal brought in alive. A standard bounty-hunting contract. If, regrettably, they can only be brought in _dead_ , the completion fee drops by two-thirds. An incentive, to make it more likely we detain _living_ clients. So that I can report to Lord Vetinari that the delicate political balance has not been upset and we can hand over _living_ men to face trial and justice."

The Compte de Yoyo laughed. Downey looked across sharply.

"I apologise, master. But there is something ironic in the idea of a Guild contract paying three times as much if the client is _alive_. As opposed to inhumed."

"We live in surprising times, Compte." Downey said. "And I also suggest that operatives, taking care to respect her privacy where this is essential, discreetly monitor Doctor Smith-Rhodes. And observe for who may be in the vicinity watching _her_."

"Just as the Watch will be doing." Joan Sanderson-Reeves said. "Half the suspicious people following Johanna are going to be Cable Street Particulars, you _do_ know that?"

Downey sighed, heavily. He'd been hoping to avoid this.

"I shall speak to Samuel Vimes." he said, wearily. "In the meantime, Joan, could you discreetly brief Johanna? I want no misunderstandings. Try, if you can, to dissuade her from taking this contract. I understand she is getting rather _bored_ with her confinement."

* * *

1 Emmanuelle had aced this one by consulting a Quirmian doctor. Who had told her a small amount of alcohol would be most medicinal to an expectant mother and that he could _, zut alors_ , see no harm in it, unlike those puritanical Morporkians. But let us be sensible and show restraint, _ma Comptesse_. No more than a bottle a day _, peut-être?_

2 By Matron Igorina. Who was not Quirmian.

3 Ridcully knew this full well, but was minded to be generous and not to investigate too closely. After all, the other fellows hadn't bothered to check what they were handing young Stibbons on a plate, and their bone-idleness had given the lad a very useful 51% controlling interest in Faculty decisions. And the lad earnt his money, you couldn't fault him. The pay had to go _somewhere_ , I mean, hell's bells, it's in the _budget_ , it's accounted for, and where better, in Ridcully's mind, than to a hard-workin' decent young lad just married and now startin' a family?

Lots of buckets of coal were also involved. The University's coal porter saw no reason to stop just because, in an unprecedented move, a senior wizard had chosen to marry and live _outside_ the University. Ponder was expected to deal with this.

4 Still pretty much current wisdom in France. And French kids are not noticeably impaired for it…

5 As the priests at Small Gods could have told him after consulting Holy Writ, there was Barracluf, Gaoler of the Gods. A kindly easily fooled deity who was not cut out for his job, Barracluf had been asked by Hoki, the Prankster God, on his eternal bed of granite upon which the venom of a serpent dripped, to "slacken off these chains a bit, as they're chafing my ankles?" Reassigned to guarding the First Thief, Fingers Mazda, chained to a rock for all eternity and visited daily by his probation officer, an eagle on a strict liver diet, he swore afterwards that he'd only nipped away for five minutes for a quick smoke. Returning to find broken chains, and empty rock, and a dying eagle croaking "where were _you_ , you bastard?" (Refer to _**The Last Hero**_ by Terry Pratchett for the canonical story, which involves Cohen the Barbarian and the Silver Horde). Barracluf now guards the Portal of Eternity behind which are the Dark Lord Mogwrath and the immortal essences of assorted would-be Dark Emperors, cast out into the Void behind the Circles of the World for their crimes. This is held to be part of the Ineffable Plan, you know, the one which cannot be effed, for the Last Days of the Apocralypse.

6 He had this in common with a unique intellectual mind he'd encountered on the Roundworld, an unworldly academic in California called Doctor Sheldon Cooper. Advert: see my Discworld/The Big Bang Theory crossover fic _**The Many worlds Interpretation.**_

7 More blatant self-promotion: see my story _**Hear Them Chatter On The Tide.**_

8 "Just stick to the _small_ ones, Johanna." Igorina had said. "Mice. Rats. Otters, maybe. Let other people wrangle lions and tigers."


	4. Maternity Wear for the modern Assassin

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that it was down to sloppy record-keeping, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down.**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork.**_

 _The Guild of Assassins, Ankh-Morpork._

Johanna sat at the foot of the wall, feeling miserable and glad none of the students had witnessed her humiliating failure. Her friend Alice Band sat next to her, exuding sympathy and taking Johanna's hand in a comforting way.

"Nobody's blaming you." Alice said, in a gentle voice. "And I'm sure you'll get the hang of it again after… well, _you know_. It's just that your body shape is wrong right now. You can't edificeer if you're carrying excess weight, for one thing. And you need to really get up close and personal to the wall. Which you just cannot do right now. Your centre of gravity is wrong and it's continually changing."

Alice sighed.

"Igorina's right, you know. There are things pregnant women are not designed to be good at. I'm going to have to sign you off edificeering and roof-running until after your child is born. And then you'll have had a long lay-off. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to retake basic proficiency tests, just to be _safe._ I'll put that in the recommendations book for the protocol committee."

Johanna nodded. The Guild was creating policy concerning the whole delicate area of pregnant Assassins. It had never needed to before. Now it was trying to remedy the lack, on the fly. **(1)** Johanna, who had barely managed to get eight feet up the wall before losing her momentum and dropping to the crash-mats beneath, was still feeling the red-faced shame of Alice immediately calling a stop to the experiment, on safety grounds.

Johanna sighed and thanked her friend. Alice looked on, sympathetically. It's never nice to see a close colleague making a hash of a basic skill, even if the reason for it is a biologically inescapable one.

"Well, the new indoor climbing wall proved its worth." she said. Alice had been fighting for this for years, as a facility to give very basic instruction to new students without damaging any. It went no higher than forty feet and almost the whole of the floor beneath was padded with crash-matting. There was also the virtue of being able to close the gym off from curious bystanders, in order to do evaluations like this in private.

"If it helps, the same pretty much applies to Emmie. And Vinnie. Although Davinia would be relieved. She was never one for climbing. I remember her getting thirty feet up and then stopping dead. I thought she'd frozen with fear, but it turned out to be a rare sort of flowering climbing plant growing in the gaps in the mortar. Professional interest."

"Thet's the only reason she climbs things." Johanna said, remembering Davinia's Mature Student training.

"Every wall an ecology. Every stone a rockery." Alice agreed.

* * *

Johanna, subdued, went on to her next lesson. At least this was classroom based: a theory lesson in Applied Exothermic Alchemy delivered to attentive senior students, on the Black.

She led a tutorial in how common household and light industrial chemicals could be assembled as improvised explosive devices, sketching key formulae and chemical equations on the blackboard and stressing to her pupils what an upward-pointing arrow meant, should they see one in an alchemical formula. **(2)**

"Negative enthalpy." she said, enunciating the term clearly. "Combines with positive entropy. The greater the differential, the larger the explosion. We cen celculate the expected yield of eny given explosive thus…"

It was an introductory lesson to new students, all of whom had been carefully pre-screened for a degree of stability, responsibility, and maturity. Some _over-enthusiastic_ potential students had been weeded out, following hard experience. As she reminded her class, you do not try this at home. In this classroom, over-confidence only tends to happen _once_ and has a regrettable tendency to take other blameless people with it. There is to be _no_ over-confidence in this class.

A student raised a hand. She nodded and took the question.

"Err, miss. The Alchemists' Guild has been doing this sort of thing for a long time now…."

He let it trail off with another _errr…_ Johanna understood.

"I believe I understand your observation, Mr Lostock-Gralam." she said. "End I eppreciate your prudent concern. Yes, we _are_ following on from work done by the Guild of Elchemists over a period of meny years. Their experiments end observations are the foundation of this elchemical discipline. Thet is where the resemblance ends. _We_ are doing it _properly_. Based on scientific discipline end meticulous calculation, _we_ are not going to immolate ourselves or blow up this laboratory. THET is the _difference_!"

"But we might blow up _other people_ , miss?"

Johanna nodded.

"Carefully selected end chosen targets. _Ja_. Without demeging ourselves."

She smiled, registering a subtly different note in the air. All the pupils in this class had passed through various other lessons she'd taught in the Lower School, for up to six years. She knew them all by name and personality and they certainly knew her. But today, she sensed the girls in the classroom watching her with a certain speculative awe. For some of them, it was almost certainly their first direct contact with a real life pregnancy in a woman they knew well enough. Others might have seen it in a sister or an aunt or even their own mothers. But in what was largely a boarding school, you see more of your teachers than your female relatives. Watching a visibly pregnant teacher get more pregnant by the day was a thing of interest. And the girls were clever enough to realise it wasn't completely of academic interest. It could well be _them_ one day. It paid to accumulate knowledge. The Guild School taught its pupils not to scorn learning opportunities. Johanna permitted genuine questions about her condition provided they were not out of idle curiosity or prurience. The girls needed honest answers, after all.

And the boys were diffident, shy, shuffling with slight embarrassment. She hadn't quite been able to figure that one out properly. Emmanuelle had been frank about it: young, or youngish, female teachers in a school full of adolescent boys, _ma foi_! "We are all objects of male desire, _cherie_. Take it as a compliment. It will not last for ever. But now, yesterday's object of teenage lust is becoming tomorrow's mother of a child. They are confused and do not know the appropriate reaction. It has gone past sex, at least for the moment. Also, they are cruelly aware that at some point in the last few months, _somebody else_ got to have sexual relations with us. It reminds them we are unattainable. No fantasy survives _this_ sort of contact with reality!"

"You mean, in their eyes, we are getting too old." Johanna said, cutting to the chase.

"They are now starting to call you _ma'am_." Emmanuelle said, frankly. Do not think I have not noticed, and do not think I have not seen your slightly shocked reaction to this."

Mademoiselle Antoinette de Badin-Boucher entered the staffroom, accompanied by Miss Ruth N'Kweze and Miss Jocasta Wiggs.

"And these days, we have _younger_ competitors to rival us for their sticky night-time affections." Emmanuelle observed. "We old ladies in our thirties no longer cut the mustard, it seems."

" _Sic transit Gloria_ " said Alice Band. Alice was aware it wasn't only the boys who could have pleasant fantasies about an attractive teacher. She pretended not to be aware of this, but felt oddly flattered.

The lady teachers took a light lunch together in a café just off Filigree Street. Johanna, Davinia and Emmanuelle had a fitting appointment in the early afternoon for maternity wear. They'd decided to go together for convenience and mutual reassurance.

* * *

The train rattled towards Ankh-Morpork on its way out of Quirm. The Quirm Flyer was an express service with very few stops. But Detective-Constable Andrew Gritchley of the Cable Street Particulars, despite or possibly because of his wounds, had decided it was imperative that he got off the train as soon as he could.

It had all gone wrong somewhere in the Neverglades, the long run through the swamp which had cost heavily to build, in terms of men, equipment and engineering skill. The trouble had occurred coming out of Bouche du Quire – _Quiremouth_ – and on the long humid run to Skankydoodle, which marked the point where Quirmian speakers lessened in numbers and Morporkian began to take over as dominant language. Attached to the Railway Police, Gritchley knew that the blocked railway line which had brought the express to a shuddering halt, the one which had taken twenty men to clear, had been no accident. It had also been on one of the long straight lengths and was visible from a long way away, as if whoever had put it there had wanted the train to stop in good time and remain intact. Fearing some sort of sentience had emerged in the swamp zombies and one had emerged who could think ahead and make a plan, a call had gone out for able-bodied and preferably armed men to supplement the railway employees. No zombies had emerged from the jungle. But four men had got on from the back, whilst the working party was occupied some way ahead of the train in clearing the line of fallen trees and debris. Then had systematically robbed two carriages of passengers of lightweight valuables such as banknotes and jewellery. By the time the railway police detachment had realised a robbery was in progress, they'd taken the train over, not without bloodshed, and forced the footplate staff to carry on for the city.

Wounded and disregarded in the brief fight, Gritchley had realised the two-man uniformed police detachment had been killed and he was the only officer left aboard. He also realised he was at the mercy of stone killers who would slaughter without blinking. The guard and goblins in the guards van were, he feared, all dead. _They'd_ got in that way. And the train staff had then got in _their_ way.

As the train slowed in the approach to the points and signal box at Dimmuck Junction, Gritchley realised he was only ever going to get one shot at this. He shakily got to his knees and opened the carriage door with his undamaged arm. Then, as the big shaven-headed thug shouted and raised a crossbow, he threw himself out, bouncing and rolling down the embankment, trying to manage the searing pain, a crossbow bolt missing him by inches…

Above him, the train rolled on towards Sproutington and then New Ankh, perhaps thirty minutes away.

A surprised cabbage farmer in the field saw the man fall from the train. He ran to help. Gritchley grinned through his agony, felt fresh blood flowing, and hoped there was a doctor nearby. Or better, an Igor. Mr Vimes needed to know about this.

* * *

Joyce Tanner busied herself with tape measure and notebook. She was one of the newest intake of Mature Students at the Guild who had successfully graduated as Assassins. She had gone on to teach at the Guild School, in the Arts and Crafts department.

"It's a simple problem to state." she said. "You require weapons belts and equipment pouches to wear that are stable and comfortable. That don't shift, stretch, constrict and where the load they bear doesn't unduly move around of its own accord. For me, interesting professional challenge!"

Joyce taught Leatherworking and Armour Accessories. The Guild considered this to be one useful way to meet the Secretariat of Education's report on the School, which had criticised it for its deficiency in providing suitable Handicrafts and Craft Pursuits. From the age of thirteen she had worked, first in tanning, and then on the production lines for Burleigh and Stronginthearm, producing bespoke sword belts, quivers, scabbards, weapons cases, helmet linings, boiled leather front-and-backs, jacks, jocks, pouches, loops, straps, fastenings and all those tricky little bits without which armour may not fasten and weapons will not function. By the age of twenty-five she had become a Master Armourer in her speciality and practically ran the leatherworking sheds.

And then there had been the business with the Unlicenced Thieves, during which she had used several sorts of leatherworkers' tools to telling effect, demonstrating that human skin, from a specialised point of view, is just another form of leather to be worked.

The Guild of Assassins had made her the standard offer concerning a career change, and she was here now, teaching young Assassins to craft those essential items like their own bespoke scabbards for sword and dagger. She had found the teaching to be rewarding, although not as much so as a couple of professional contracts that had paid her, in one or two goes, the equivalent of fifteen years' salary at Burleigh's. Joyce had let her old life go, not without regret, and had embraced a change in direction.

The three visibly pregnant women stood expectantly and allowed themselves to be measured by Joyce and students on the Leatherworking craft module. They were part of another teacher's lesson, after all, and professional courtesy dictated they did as requested. They watched with quiet interest as Joyce directed her students to start preparing parchment templates from their measurements, so as to have guides for cutting and preparing the leather.

The students here were the sort of practical minds who appreciated the hands-on tuition they were getting in leatherworking. They also knew Miss Tanner believed a student should know leather in _all_ its stages. Nobody wanted to be sent on Work Experience down at the abbatoir harvesting, and then cleaning, raw hides. The Tanning module that followed next was unspeakable, and they all knew Miss Tanner used it as an appropriate reward for cheek, bad work needing remedial teaching, or _over-confidence_. The ingrained smell Miss Tanner carried with her, that people very carefully refrained from remarking on out of good manners because she couldn't help it, was testimony to a few years spent working in the tanning yards. **(3)**

"Since your last visit, I've had everyone working on the prototypes." Joyce said. "I've got three which are pretty much ready for wear now. I'd just like to fit them to you and make adjustments for your individual shapes. So we can move on from _off-the-peg_ to _bespoke_."

She nodded to a senior student, who uncovered three tailors' dummies.

"Got them from the maternity wear department at Horrids." she said. "It's nice to have an unlimited budget for this sort of thing. Miss Sanderson-Reeves persuaded the Dark Council that the Guild should foot _all_ the research and development costs, as part of the ongoing protocol thing."

"I'm grateful." Davinia Bellamy said. She was by far the most advanced of the three. Her body, Johanna observed, seemed _designed_ for pregnancy. Wide hips and a broader frame. A larger bump.

"There's never been such a thing as a pregnant Assassin before." Joyce remarked. "The Guild wants to explore all the angles and find out everything it can. So you're the lab-rats, so to speak. And from my point of view this is a professional challenge. I know in the old days there were such things as barbarian warriors who got pregnant. And Thieves. But there isn't much information on how they got round the sword-belt thing. We're having to work it out from scratch, and make intelligent assumptions."

"Or chain-mail." Emmanuelle observed. Joyce gave her an amused look.

"Oh, chain-mail is _easy_." she said, dismissively. "You just go to the Dwarfs, fork out a lot of money, and they let it out in front and add a lot more links. Plate-armour and breastplates, not so. _Completely_ redesigned breastplate, a brand-new and very much larger fauld, and some _seriously_ expanding tasses. You know. All the front-body stuff. But that's just steel. I can do steel, up to a point, but it's not as _alive_ as leather. Steel is a _made_ thing. Leather is a _living_ thing. Now let me show you. Doctor Bellamy, just raise your arms while I demonstrate?"

Joyce helped Davinia fit one of the _new_ sort of swordbelts.

"The front band is shaped and stiffened." she explained. "It's more than a belt here. But not quite a rigid harness, as it still has to move with you. Equipment pouches slip over the belt via loops secured behind. You can have as few or as many as you like, various sizes. Frogging _here_ and _here_ to secure scabbards. The front band of the belt is deliberately curved so it follows the line of the ribcage. The idea is that it curves up and over the bulge and doesn't constrict. Secures with a simple twist belt. Male half through slot in female. Twist and it locks. Is that comfortable, Davinia? The design works in stretch panels _here_ and _here._ There's also a cross-shoulder Sam Browne for extra security. As usual, it can carry more pouches. As I say, this is all a bit Mark One, so I'd like you to wear them in for a while and come back with any issues and recommendations. "

Johanna smiled happily as the new swords-and-equipment belt settled in to her. It fitted closely and snugly. She transferred over whip, machete and daggers from the old one that would now be relegated to her wardrobe, at least for a while.

Maternity clothing is _tricky_ for an Assassin.

* * *

Vimes bent over the bed. Andrew Gritchley had been saved by a local Igor and transferred, barely alive, to the Lady Sybil. He and Carrot heard the report with grim attention.

The Quirm Flyer had arrived in New Ankh Station and created commotion and consternation. The watch detail at the station had demanded priority back-up and an All Officers shout had gone out. Carrot had taken command and set up an incident room where traumatised and robbed passengers could be interviewed and statements taken. A relay of ambulances had conveyed wounded people to the Lady Sybil and, with grim necessity, bodies to the morgue. The Watchmen present had stopped and saluted two dead colleagues carried out on covered stretchers. Lord Harry King turned up and had openly wept at hearing of the dead guard. Adora Belle Dearheart had smoked a cigarette in furious meaningful silence as she heard about six dead goblins.

"All six goblins travelling with the train." Vimes had said.

"It's as if the attackers really hated goblins, sir. I don't think they showed much fight." Carrot said. "Cold-blooded killing."

"They weren't aboard when the train arrived in New Ankh." Vimes remarked. "Nor was Gritchley. He's missing."

"Passenger reports indicate one man managed to throw himself out of the train while it was moving slowly outside Dimmuck." Carrot said. "The perpetrators ran to the door and started shooting at him."

"Clacks Dimmuck." Vimes said. "Get people out there to look. Priority."

"Already done, sir. Indications are that the people we're looking for skipped the train somewhere around Effing on the line towards Sproutingham."

"Well, you wouldn't expect them to stick around."

A thought struck Vimes.

"They got on in the Neverglades, having forced the train to stop. They harvest two or three thousands' worth of cash and valuables on the train. I'm wondering if this has to do with the prison escape. If I were stranded in that bloody swamp, pursued by bloody zombies and whoever the Quirmians had tracking me down, and knew a regular train ran through it, what would I do? _Hijack the train_. Get off it somewhere remote, but not too remote. In between, I steal enough to pay my way in Ankh-Morpork for a few months. And Effing is near enough to the City. Get the files and iconographs on those bloody Howondalandians who escaped from the Island, would you?"

And several hours later, Gritchley had been found. Vimes and Carrot had got to Dimmuck as quickly as they could. Gritchley was in a local home, tended by an Igor, one of those who passed through outlying villages plying an itinerant trade. Igors were welcomed in railway towns as even on the best-run rail lines, you never knew when you needed one. Accidents to railwaymen could be severe and require prompt care. And new limbs. The local stationmaster had taken the policeman into his home and provided a bedspace and support facilities.

They heard his report and asked careful questions. They showed Grinchley the iconographs. He confirmed those were the men and two of them had _definitely_ had Rimwards Howondalandian accents.

"Once heard, never forgotten." Vimes said. "And we know they were definitely on the train when you, er, left it."

He stood up.

"Look, we'll get you back to the City when Igor thinks you're fit to travel." he said. "For now, we'll get a guard on this house, just in case. You try and sleep now. And – bloody well done!"

Vimes slipped the stationmaster thirty dollars for his expenses in housing the wounded Watchman.

"It's not so much that, sir." The stationmaster said. "But thank you. It's an attack on the _trains_!" He sounded outraged. "Tell me you'll get these men, sir?" he almost pleaded.

"As soon as we can." Vimes reassured him. "We have a pretty good idea of why they want to get to the city. We're watching certain places. We'll get them. Sooner or later."

Vimes now had a personal reason to get them. Two dead Railway Watchmen. And he had a list of potential targets in the city. _I'll step up the watch on Johanna,_ he decided. _But there are also the other potential targets._

He decided to call a case conference when he was back. It wouldn't hurt to call in the Assassins. And the Rimwards Howondalandian authorities. The Ambassador was a target too. And the wanted men were _their_ bloody nationals. Compare notes. See who had bits of useful information. So long as the Assassins and the Howondalandians realised this was _his_ bust. Two dead Watchmen screamed out for that.

* * *

At the Tanty Prison, Peter Bellamy was interviewing Probationary Officer Edward Cullen. He'd had reservations about hiring Cullen. But he didn't see how the…man… could be denied a try-out, as he was fit, of good character, and sincerely wanted to work in "corrective institutions". **(4)** To have refused him would have been discrimination.

So Cullen had been enrolled and put through basic training. A tenet of prison officering was never, ever, to let the cons test your weaknesses and play on them. But straight away, they'd identified one in Cullen. And milked it. To Peter Bellamy, it stopped _here_.

"Let's recap, shall we. You were assigned to perform cell searches for suspected contraband. A standard duty. But. And let me stress nobody's blaming _you_. In the circumstances it's pretty much inevitable. And I'm aware you can't help it."

Peter looked at the eager, alert seeming-young officer with sympathy.

"The moment they realised you're a vampire. The cons realised that if they refused you permission to go into their cells, you could not cross the threshold. That is an age-old limiting factor on vampires, I understand. So while you were standing outside unable to go in, they could hide the contraband, throw it out of the window to an associate in the exercise yard, or otherwise delay other officers arriving to perfume the cell search."

Cullen nodded, ruefully.

Peter Bellamy shook his head, sadly.

"Look. You're capable in other ways and I really don't want to lose you. So what I'm proposing is that while we get this sorted out – Mr Morecombe the lawyer, being a vampire, is graciously looking for loopholes we can use to get round this little difficulty – you go on night shifts. Fly security patrols around the rooftops and perimeter. I'm sorry because I know that's boring work, but right now it's the best I can offer… what is it, Mr Anderson?"

The junior prison officer, who'd knocked and entered, coughed and said

"Excuse me, Mr Bellamy. Got a message that Mrs Bellamy was in a street incident. Some unlicenced Thieves tried their luck with her. New in town, apparently."

Peter Bellamy exhaled wearily.

"How many casualties, Mr Anderson?"

"Three, sir, but no deaths. I guess we'll be seeing them here soon after the next Assizes. And Doctor Smith-Rhodes was involved, too."

" _Definitely_ new in town, then." Bellamy agreed. He briefly wondered how new or desperate somebody would have to be to try to mug two Assassins. Maybe they thought pregnant women would be especially vulnerable, or something. _Not those two._

"She sends her love, tells you not to worry, and she'll see you at home later, sir."

* * *

"New in town, are you?" Davinia Bellamy said, pleasantly. She didn't seem alarmed at all at being confronted by three knife-and-club wielding thieves.

"We're not Guild members". The spokes-thief said. He brandished his knife. Two women, both visibly sprogged with bulges in front. Easy marks. "And we don't mind cutting you. So _give._ "

The mumsy blonde with the specs turned to the younger red-haired one.

"Shall we give them something, Johanna?" she asked, in the same unconcerned voice.

Johanna grinned. Pregnancy was making her _cranky_. **(5)** She needed some exercise.

Several hundred yards away, undercover Particular Sergeant Jim Gerbilac, assigned to discreetly follow and observe Johanna, was in a dilemma as to whether or not to break cover. He discreetly identified himself to street Sergeant Fred Colon, who was also watching.

"Oh, that one's _easy_ , Jim!" Fred said. He turned to his probationary lance-constable street partner for the day.

"The two ladies is Assassins." Fred said, explaining. "But them thieves ain't worked that out. Must be new faces in town. We watch, right, and when they've dealt with the situation, we proceeds forward and if at all possible, we seek to deter Mrs Stibbons **(6)** from actually _killing_ anybody. Then we nick the unconscious Thieves and calls for a hurry-up wagon. No need for you to show a badge, Jim." Colon added, in a discreet whisper.

Gerbilac nodded and moved away.

And then the situation resolved itself in an unexpected manner.

Three young men, in uniform denoting them as being senior Assassins' School pupils on the black, emerged from a coffee shop on Treacle Mine Road. They paused and took in the situation for just long enough.

Then all three rushed the thieves.

The largest and burliest of the three roared with rage and hammered the luckless spokesthief up against a wall. His knife fell with a clang. The other two were soon in a private world of pain all of their own.

Johanna and Davinia looked at each other and stood back.

"Well, your lessons in streetfighting certainly work." Davinia said.

Johanna nodded. She'd regretfully had to suspend her extra-curricular class in Unorthodox Fighting Skills. She missed this. Then she said

"Mr Drooley?" in as commanding a voice as she could muster.

Wayne Drooley, student assassin, let his mark slump.

"Yes, miss?" Drooley said, politely.

"Do not think I'm not grateful for this. But thet man's taken enough of a bettering. You do not wish to inhume him. That causes _problems_. I see the Watch is nearby. Let them take over."

Johanna moved forwards and shook hands with her three pupils.

Drooley reddened slightly.

"I thenk you for your essistance." she said. Davinia was also grateful.

Wayne Drooley shuffled awkwardly. In a pupil that size and shape, it was endearing.

"I saw them going for you, miss. And I thought. In your state that's not _right_. You're one of the best, miss. Always been good to me. You play fair. And I sort of thought. She's OK, miss Smith-Rhodes. Done me favours. So we did you one back. And we felt… sort of _protective_ , miss. You being as you are and all. Errr…"

"I understend. Now those Watchmen are coming this way. It would not do for you to be here when they arrive. I should leave. I will deal with them. End thenk you egain."

The students left. Fred Colon took this as a signal to speed up.

"That's a turn-up." Davinia said, reflectively. "The boys start out being frightened of us. Get pregnant, it suddenly brings out the best in them. Even young Wayne."

" _Protective_ of us." Johanna said, thoughtfully. "Now _thet's_ a new one!" **(7)**

"Let's talk to the Watch." Davinia said, practically. They completely missed Jim Gerbilac, who carried on covertly observing.

* * *

 **1** Although the Dark Council called it _evolving policy on this matter, based on the lessons of practical experiment, hard experience and close observation, so as to guide the Guild appropriately in the future. (trans: "_ We didn't have policy on this before, as frankly we all hoped it would never happen. Despite the well-known and attested tendency of the human race to pair-bond and procreate, the history of the Guild, up till possibly eleven or twelve years ago, was an almost exclusively male one. Pregnancy was seen as a private issue for the wives and extended families of Assassins and not for the Gentlemen themselves, who could be relied upon to make appropriate and suitably private arrangements in advance of the happy event and not involve the Guild directly. Now women have, most deservedly, become full members of the Guild family, we realise the time is now appropriate to consider this matter in more detail.") In other words, ten out of thirteen members of the Dark Council had been caught out and needed to make up some sort of protocol pretty much on the fly. The other three, who'd seen it coming, were fuming with frustration and making sure the new policies and protocols would be practical, sensible and workable.

 **2** I _could_ provide interesting examples, but Rule of Cautious Editing Judgement applies here. Suffice to say that an upward-pointing arrow, at least when I was at school, means "a large amount of thermal energy will be given off by this reaction. We're really not joking here. The word "Ka-BOOM!" applies."

 **3** Joyce Tanner _reeked_. Of perfumed soap, anti-perspirants, bath essences, lavender oil, and so forth. Her personal hygiene was unimpeachable. The problem was, she over-compensated for the odours of the tanning yard and even now tended to be incredibly careful in her personal regimen. People meeting her for the first time found their noses shut down in self-defence. But when you considered the alternative and reflected on the substances tanners worked with, you didn't complain about the lavender. Students sent by her for a day of Work Experience in the tanning yard could similarly be identified by their smell for some weeks afterwards. Johanna, who kept Acerian skunks at the Zoo, had gone through a similar uncomfortable fortnight or so after inadvertently being sprayed. She sympathised. And used Skunks as a weapon against student bad behaviour. Davinia Bellamy cultivated Durian fruit, or rather got _certain students_ to cultivate it for her, for the same reasons.

 **4** _"Prisons"._ Bellamy had corrected him. He didn't want _that_ sort of language in his nick, thank you very much. There were _limits._

 **5** "cranky". Spell it differently and it's a Dutch/Afrikaans word for "sick" or "ill" and has a colloquial meaning of _"ill-tempered, as with a headache"._

 **6** Colon was an old-fashioned sort of man who firmly believed a married woman should always take her husband's name. Because it was _traditional_ , right, and a mark of the institution of holy wedlock.

 **7** I can confirm this. At age eleven we had a slightly scary but attractive younger woman teaching us French. For the next few years she managed our French classes with a very firm hand. When we were fifteen, she was visibly pregnant. She detailed myself and another guy to help her sort out books for the class and took us to a store cupboard. On the way she talked to us like we were adults, perfectly normally, as if we were people she knew outside school. This was vanishingly rare in my school. And Simon and I realised we now towered over her. She looked small, fragile and very, very, pregnant. And we both realised. We somehow, absurdly, felt protective of her. So I wrote a little of this into the enfante terrible Wayne Drooley. Tribute, really.


	5. Dinner for nine

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that it was down to sloppy record-keeping, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down. Struggling to meet deadlines and sleeping 12 hours a day, so please do not think I'm being ignorant in not replying to PM's and reviews. Bit long but I needed something out there to advance the plot. I may revise a bit as it doesn't feel quite right yet.  
**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. Getting clothing that fits and doesn't look like Fools' Guild surplus found in a shonky shop. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork. Even when people aren't out to kill you.  
**_

 _ **Nine people gather for dinner. Technically eleven - depends on how you look at it!**_

 _18 Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork_

Ponder Stibbons accepted that at least one wall of the living room would become a shrine, of sorts, to the profession of Assassin. Johanna had graciously allowed him to mount his rarely-carried staff over the fireplace. It rested horizontally in two brackets above the mantelpiece. His ready-use broomstick was mounted above, close to a source of sustaining magic and available, fully-charged, for when it was needed. But these were the only clues that a wizard lived here. His books of magic were now safely locked away in his study, in a glass-fronted bookcase. The maids were wary of dusting them after they'd started growling back, and one semi-rogue grimoire had bitten the end off a feather duster. He had bought the glass-fronted case after the maids had expressed their ambivalent feelings to Madam.

Johanna, by contrast, kept her weapons out in the open, mounted on the walls of the living room. Pride of place went to a crossed assegai and knobkerrie, with a flat hide shield mounted in front of them. A lionskin headdress with dyed ostrich feathers, and an impi commander's flyswitch of office, advertised the seniority of the man who had formerly owned them. These were displayed in a place of honour **.(1)** Ponder had never asked where she'd got them from, knowing she'd probably tell him; he cherished his ignorance of some of the things she'd done before they'd met.

Many other weapons, grouped by type, were mounted on the walls. A rack of bows and crossbows of various sizes and types occupied one section of wall. Another was dedicated to swords, principally of Howondalandian and Klatchian manufacture, but with some fine Central Continent and Agatean examples. Throwing knives of various weights had their own section for display, as did cavalry lances. Whips of various nations and traditions hung from pegs **. (2)** And there were other things too, identifiable as weapons by certain aspects of spikiness and sharpness, but which he was unsure of which end you held, and which you pointed at your enemy.

This Wednesday evening, two guests, students at the Assassins' School, were studying the weaponry with intense professional interest. Ponder looked up from where he was reading the Times. _Good_ , he thought, _they didn't need to be reminded about not touching a Wizard's staff._ A Wizard's staff was attuned to its owner. A wizard of greater power could handle your staff pretty much with impunity, although it was always good manners to ask first. Ponder could give permission for others to handle it. The housemaids, after an unfortunate initial incident involving Eve, had been introduced to the Staff and it had been explained that they needed to dust it occasionally. The capital-S Staff had then become quiescent when approached by the lower-case staff with feather dusters and polishing cloths. But for anyone else there would be a brief unpleasant lightning-lemon shock **.(3)** Student Assassins were given brief guidance in protocol and etiquette when dealing with wizards and the tools of their trade. Not _every_ teacher warned them that wizards' staffs were primed to deter people other than their owner from touching them; some teacher-Assassins considered this only fair, and a little detail a bright pupil could work out from context. As for a _dim_ pupil: well, best they were weeded out early.

Ponder thought back to the Battle of the Tobacco Fields and winced again. He was pretty sure some of those fireballs had been down to the staff recognising its imperative, to defend its owner in time of peril. When it had gone rogue in his hands and started clobbering Matabele tribesmen under its own volition… Ponder was pretty sure that hadn't been _him_ doing that. But he'd still been hailed afterwards, initially by a very creative journalist, as a hero and a wizard as brave as any of old.

"Please, madam." one of the two girl students had said, indicating a particularly strange weapon. "I do not recognise this blade and I am unsure of its use."

Johanna had smiled slightly and taken the big curved weapon down from the wall. She handed it to the student, hand-grips first.

"It is called a _bat'leth_." she said. "Its origins are lost in time and space, but I em told it is a blade of hon-OR emongst the Klingon warrior people." **(4)**

Johanna had taken care to have the blade and points properly edged by a Dwarven swordsmith on her return from Roundworld. Her strange pronunciation of the word "honour" was a private joke.

The student moved the weapon experimentally and allowed her body to move in the directions it appeared to dictate. Johanna nodded approval. That had been her own first response to the _bat'leth_ , in Sheldon and Leonard's living room at 2311 North Los Robles. It had convinced her there was something of worth here.

"It is beautifully balanced." the student observed. She moved with the blade again.

"Something similar is used as a pole-arm by Egetean soldiers." Johanna said.

"And this is the hand-held version. These Klingons are an Agatean people, madam? Thank you for allowing me to hold this."

"You can never know too many weapons." Johanna said, simply. "End by thet, I mean you must _know_. Merely hendling a new weapon for an hour or so cen engender over-confidence. Continual prectice is key."

She added: "Klingons exist, _ja_. I did not directly encounter eny. But I heard of them when on a mission for the University, exploring a strange other world. I fear you could not cite them in eny school work es a warrior race, es they are unknown here on the Disc. The weapon returned with me from thet world. End _megic_ was involved, _ja_. "

Which was also scrupulously true **. (5)** Her student did not need to know specific detail. She strongly suspected _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ would not be accepted as a valid research source in School essays.

The student eventually returned the weapon to the wall, with thanks.

Johanna smiled. Rivka-bin-Divorah was a Cenotine, one of a people small in numbers but high in determination. Their religion was a strict and tightly ordered one hedged with taboo and observance. Worshipping one God, it had fathered Omnianism, a schismatic and in its eyes heretical faith. The Cenotines had either exiled themselves to other parts of the Disc when Omnianism came calling to convert them to the new faith, or else had retreated into the mountains to fight a fierce and pitiless guerrilla war with the Divine Legions. Even though the struggle had bred a people who could fight like Hell, only the advent of Brutha and a new sort of Omnianism had ultimately saved them. On the brink of defeat by sheer weight of numbers, their country had been returned to them with apologies from the new Omnia, and its sincere aid in rebuilding. These days, Omnianism graciously accepted that its fellow believers in Om, the Older People of the Prophets, were exempt from evangelism and, uniquely, had their own mechanism for reconciliation and salvation in Om's Holy Kingdom. **(6)**

Rivka was a product of the new Cenotia, quiet, meek and demure on the outside until you looked her in the eyes and saw the fire in there. She was ideal Assassin material. Johanna saw her job as one of general education, and shaping the raw talent this girl represented. Whilst teachers at the Guild were wary about having open favourites among their pupils, just sometimes a pupil came along who stood out from their peers, and who it was a pleasure to cultivate and pay that little bit more personal attention to. It was informally accepted that every Guild teacher would now and again adopt a _protégée_ , a student with special talent or ability. Ruth N'Kweze had been one, in her time; Johanna was beginning to suspect Rivka would be her second.

And it helped that Rivka bin-Divorah was pretty much best friends at School with her younger sister, Mariella Smith-Rhodes. This meant that on Wednesdays, a day normally devoted to Compulsory Sports and Physical Activity with a minimum of prep in the evenings, she could invite her sister over to dinner. And casually ask if she'd like to bring a friend along? It made situations like this easier and more informal. Their housemistress, Emmanuelle de Lapoignard, knew and approved, and had included a note about it in her handover files for her successor, Mademoiselle de Badin-Boucher. It gave both girls opportunity to see some sort of family life outside boarding school, and a reason for them to return late. Overnight stays at the weekend were a possibility, too.

"I was meaning to esk, Johanna." Mariella said, studying a particular weapon intently. "What _are_ these, end how are they used?"

Ponder sighed. Rimwards Howondalandians were attracted to large powerful weapons. It appeared to be a national addiction. But he had a strange fascination with one of his wife's new acquisitions. It bothered him that while they looked like distorted letter X's, only one leg of the X was an apparent handle. The other three legs were sharp blades, one of which looked like a large vicious axe. It would be interesting to get a general idea, if only for academic reasons. Most of the things on the wall frankly scared him. Knowing his wife could use _any_ of them in any combination, with pretty much expert proficiency, was only marginally more reassuring. He watched her take one down, carefully holding it by the leather-bound grip, and weight it in her hand.

"The _Zande_ knife. Elso called a _kpinga_ , an _nzapa_ , or a _kwanza_." she said. "It is a weapon of a tribe of the deep jungle in Howondaland. Fortunately for us, we have hed little contect with this people. This weapon is a good reason for my use of the word "fortunate." Do you wish to know how it is used? Good. We shell go into the garden end kill time until dinner is ready. Mariella, please ensure the dogs remain indoors. These are throwing weapons. I do not wish the dogs to chase them."

Johanna noticed how her dogs seemed to have an extra depth of affection for her sister. She sighed. Mariella had an easy unforced manner around the servants, who all seemed to return the affection for Young Madam. She, Johanna, had had to work at it, and her current liberal attitude to black people was the culmination of her twelve or thirteen years in Ankh-Morpork. Mariella seemed to have condensed those thirteen years of painful change of attitude into roughly five minutes. The house goblins seemed to like her being around, too. Her usual greeting to Op die Veldt was a high-five and a happy exchange of " _Hey, Wimowe_!" countered with " _Hey, Red Vixen Cub!_ " **(7).** She also had an easy familiarity with the servants. Aunt Friejda winced to see it, and considered there should be _some_ distance between the white householder and the bleck servants. ("Why?" Mariella had asked, perplexed. "This is not Home. For any of us!")

"Ponder, look efter our other guests when they errive." she directed him, and led her students out into the garden. Simeon, the Boy, was chopping firewood for winter, splitting larger logs into ready kindling against a flat tree-stump. He began working a little faster at the appearance of Madam.

"Take a break, Simeon." Johanna said. "Leave one of those logs on the stump? _Dankie_."

The houseboy smiled with appreciation, and lowered his axe. This was something else that gave Aunt Friejda the vapours, Johanna reflected; giving black servants tools which could be used to fulfil the biggest single neurosis of the White Howondalandian Woman of Means; _That They Might Rise Up And Slaughter Us In Our Beds._ **(8)** Although she was White Howondalandian, Johanna had no such phobia. This was Ankh-Morpork. She treated the servants well and paid them at Ankh-Morporkian rates. Apartheid law only applied if anyone official from the Embassy was visiting. Nobody got whipped, and her Ridgeback dogs had been educated since puppyhood to recognise only _people._ Despite expectations, the most either of her dogs would do to a servant would be to soak them in gallons of doggy spit **.(9)** Knowing they were well off in every way, her housestaff were happy and loyal. _And discreet_ , she reminded herself. _This is needed_.

Five months into her pregnancy and still accustoming herself to what felt like an ever-changing centre of gravity, she took one of the Zande throwing weapons by the handle, reminded herself how these things were done, and braced her feet. With an easy movement of her right arm, shoulder and upper body, she let the weapon fly. It described a glittering metallic arc in the air, and missed the smaller log by inches, lodging with a wooden thudding noise in the larger flat-topped tree stump. It quivered for a second or two and then rested.

"Also called the _Kwaanza_ weapon." she said, drily. "Efter a religious celebration where it is customary to give gifts. The tribe who devised this weapon consider it is en eppropriate gift for en enemy. Mariella?"

Her sister took a second weapon, considered its weight and balance thoughtfully, then lifted it into the air and let her arm drop, as she had been taught in knife-throwing classes. It clipped the log, causing it a glancing blow and making it rock on the tree stump, but overshot into the garden behind. A wood shaving floated lazily on the air for a moment.

"Miss bin-Divorah?"

Rivka chopped her arm down decisively. Her thrown weapon very nearly split the log. Johanna nodded her appreciation. She recalled Rivka had an aptitude for thrown ranged weapons.

Choosing their moment, two of the house-goblins, who had been watching with appreciation, ran to collect the weapons.

"One exe-head. End two curved blades. Making it very likely one or more will do demege to the target." Johanna said, glad to be doing something physical with weapons at long last.

"Hey, Wimowe!" Mariella said, taking a returned weapon from the goblin.

"You hit straight _next_ time, Red Vixen-Cub!" the goblin said, amiably. "Aim two points to left. Then you split firewood!"

They spent a pleasant half-hour refining their skills with a new weapon.

Then Claude, the butler, was coughing discreetly behind her.

"Your other guests are beginning to arrive, madam." He said. "The Professor is hosting them in the living room."

* * *

Elsewhere, four men, fugitives from the law, had settled into a fairly remote and otherwise deserted homestead in the empty country near Effing Forest. They were preparing for a permanent move into Ankh-Morpork and had already discreetly recce'd the city. Anyone expressing curiosity about the ramshackle old farmhouse, deserted since its tenants had found it impossible to make a living on land that was eighty percent old tree root left behind after foresters had been and gone, had either been bought off or allowed a few moment's reflection to comprehend some not-quite-threats that were allowed to hang, unformed, in the air. A local general stores had been handsomely paid to deliver food and drink, no questions asked. Or welcomed.

Perceiving no threat so long as the men were not disturbed, such as passed for a local community – who in the main did not bother with newspapers except as food wrapping or a necessary item to hang in the privy – regarded them as strangers with a harsh and guttural accent, probably some sort of Überwaldean, listen to the language they spoke among themselves, and left them alone. They went to the city in ones and twos to find out what they could. Gate guards, primed to look out for _four_ shaven-headed suspicious strangers from Rimwards Howondaland who might be dressed in prison uniforms still, paid little attention to the surly drover-looking types, whose hair was growing out along with beards and moustaches. Thieves, both licenced and unlicenced, who recognised trouble on legs, avoided them. Assassins just saw another sort of country peasant in town for the day. Watchmen saw no reason to investigate men who stayed within the law and walked as if they had every right to be there, refraining from running or other suspicious activity. **(10)** The visitors made no attempt to contact or associate with other Rimwards Howondalandians, recognising the familiar signs of compatriots, and very carefully not identifying themselves. Thus, Liutnant Verkramp of BOSS received no relevant intelligence from his ethnic community.

They visited pubs like the Mended Drum and discovered that in the Troll's Head, information could be bought and traded from a clientele with no love for the Watch or established authority. Recognising kindred spirits, or at least people of a similar temperament who had reasons not to draw the Law onto themselves, the denizens of the Troll's Head shrugged, decided getting into a fight with these guys would not be productive, and moved over to accept them with no questions asked. In return for a few dollars, Mine Host **(11)** at the Troll's Head tipped them off to accommodation for rent in the Shades that was suitable for men such as yourselves, sir. Three dollars a week for the rooms and another three for keeping your confidences and being a person of tight-lipped discretion, know what I mean?

DuPlessis considered this. He considered the money and valuables stolen in what the local paper was describing as _The Great Train Robbery_ , then nodded, and asked the landlord to set up a meeting. Thinking of jewellery they'd relieved from its former owners, he then inquired about people who dealt in small but expensive items of doubtful provenance, and could convert them into cash. Another ten dollars bought a name, and they hadn't heard it in the Troll's Head, understood?

And so the four wanted men arrived in Ankh-Morpork, ready to take revenge to the next stage.

* * *

Emmanuelle de Lapoignard appraised one of the Zande blades that the two students were returning to their place in the wall display. She weighed one in her hand with an expression of two-parts interest and one-third disdain.

"I see." she said, passing it carefully back to Rivka. "And you say these were confiscated by the ever-vigilant Commander Vimes, following a disturbance in an immigrant area of the City?"

" _Ja."_ said Johanna. "It is fortunate these are legacy weapons, thet somebody's grendfether brought with him when the femily immigrated to here. When they came out in a street brawl they were easily confiscated, es they were thrown et a Golem konstabel."

* * *

The usual practice with weapons confiscated by the Watch was to destroy them if they were cheap shoddy home-made items, Saturday Night Specials. Anything better made, professionally manufactured or of intrinsic interest went for storage in the City Armoury or to one of the City museums. These had provoked a court case, where the former owner had appealed against confiscation, arguing that they were both family heirlooms of irreplaceable sentimental value and clearly cultural weapons, like Dwarf axes. Vetinari had observed that not even the most culturally aware Dwarf would risk blunting their axe on a Golem, and since Dwarfs had been the precedent used to interpret the law on cultural weapons and were law-abiding enough not to try to use them on the Watch, the case was therefore vexatious litigation, and was dismissed. Commander Vimes, please dispose of these _things_ according to your usual good judgement in these matters?

Johanna had then approached Vimes and asked if he could dispose of them in her direction.

"What, use my good judgement to dispose of dangerous weapons by giving them to the Assassins?" he had asked.

" _Ja._ They are of professional interest." she had said.

Vimes had considered. They were Howondalandian weapons, certainly. And Assassins only used weapons for legal business or self-defence. And Johanna was _responsible._ She'd keep them safe and 99% of the time they'd just be trophies on the wall, or demonstration items…

"OK. We can say this comes under the heading of confiscated property, auctioned off to citizens of good standing, in the normal course of events. **(12)** I bid five hundred. Johanna?"

"Five hundred and one."

"Do I hear five hundred and two? No? Going, going, _gone!_ Five hundred and one dollars to Doctor Smith-Rhodes, payable to the Watch Widows and Orphans fund. Just keep 'em secure, Johanna."

"Thenk you, Mr Vimes."

* * *

And now they were part of her personal weapon collection. Emmanuelle, a woman who would contest the description of _sword_ as a noun if applied to many of the things on Johanna's living room wall, sighed philosophically. To her, a lot of the _swords_ here were merely long metal clubs with a sharp edge.

"Any luck house-hunting?" Ponder Stibbons asked. He knew she was still looking. She shrugged and shook her head.

"It is very vexatious." She admitted. "I am not looking for a mansion, and I wish for something larger than an artisan's terraced house. Some of the things estate agents believe I would be interested in… _c'est très abominable!"_

Johanna nodded, sympathetic.

"Vinnie told me Number Four may soon be up for sale." she said. "The femily there are looking to move on."

"So Spa Lane becomes _La rue des Assassins_ ". Emmanuelle observed.

"Young professional people with families." Ponder observed. "Apparently good for an area."

"So the estate agents say." Emmanuelle replied, drily. "Although I perceive there may be _advantages_ in having friends and colleagues as near-neighbours."

She looked reflective for a moment.

"Number Four, Spa Lane." she said, considering the idea. "Johanna, _chère amie_ , please keep me informed? A private sale involving no estate agents is an appealing idea. I have frankly seen enough of them!"

She turned to Mariella and Rivka.

"How was your afternoon, _mes élèves_?" she asked, Housemistress to pupils. "I have always sought to avoid excessive physical exertion on Wednesdays, as you know."

It was true: many of the teachers led sports or physical recreation on a Wednesday afternoon. Emmanuelle sometimes took additional Swords classes, remedial work with slow learners, or advanced classes for fast ones. But lately she had used the half-day for house-hunting, a frustrating business. Johanna aced things by exploiting an additional teaching contract at the Fools' Guild School, which kept her in the warm and dry, or at least the dry, indoors. Which was no small thing in Ankh-Morpork in autumn or winter **.(13)**

Mariella explained that she had been sent out on a cross-country run, on a route devised by Mr Bradlofrudd, the Guild's genial PE Master.

"It was made difficult today, madame." she said, keeping any suspicion of complaint out of her voice. "Epperently, Mr Bradlofrudd considers I em not _stretched_ enough by the runs."

Johanna smiled quietly. The fact her sister tended to come in first in a class of girls after a three or five mile run, a long way ahead of the pack and quite often beating most of the _boys_ of her own age, had been noticed. And it had been noted she was hardly breathing heavily and often complained she could have been _faster_ if the ground had been harder with no muddy stretches. PE teachers got _nervous_ about this sort of thing, cross-country running being expressly designed to be something meant to break their will to resist, and make them more amenable.

Bill Bradlofrudd had asked Johanna's advice. She had frankly asked Bill what he _expected_ , as he was dealing with somebody accustomed to long treks over the Veldt at a fast pace. A three mile run was nothing at all to a Veldt Boor. She proposed a solution, however, something that would _really_ push her sister's limits. Something verging on the sadistic, something only an older sister could think of, as a reminder to her sibling she wasn't there to coast along doing the essential minimum.

"So who won, _ma petite_?" Emmanuelle inquired.

"Today, me. But not by very much." Mariella admitted. "Five yards, possibly."

Her teachers nodded, sympathetically. Black and White Howondalandian students were gradually introduced to each other over the course of the first two years. It was held to be prudent that they did not share the same dorm, for instance, even if they had to share classrooms. But Johanna had suggested a lot could be achieved on the sports field, just so long as care was taken with the Zulu pupils and javelins, for instance. In one sense they were too close to assegais.

Therefore White Howondalandian pupils to whom endurance sports were commonplace had been set to race against Zulus, who also had the ability to leave Central Continent pupils a long way behind and panting for breath.

Mariella had suddenly discovered she had competition on the running tracks, and what had been a relatively easy Wednesday had now become a real test of speed and stamina. She had developed an intense rivalry with her year-mate Sisibusa N'zima and Wednesday afternoon races for third-year pupils had a new edge. People laid bets. And the competition was close. Sometimes Sisibusa won, sometimes Mariella. Other White Howondalandian and Zulu pupils also competed, but they were the second team behind the two star performers. Bill, seeing them doubled up and panting for breath like any normal pupil, was _very_ happy. Normal PE Teacher-to-pupil relations had been resumed. Ones who sauntered through the hardest exercise he could devise without even breathing heavily were, to him, taking the piss.

"A little victory for Black Widow House, then." Emmanuelle said, approving. She had staked a hundred dollars on Mariella at odds of three to one. Even the Gamblers' Guild had heard of the informal competition between Boors and Zulus, natural enemies of long standing, and the way national pride was being used to cajole the students into _really_ giving it their best. It was too good _not_ to bet on.

"As you say, Madame." Mariella said, neutrally. She _really_ knew it was her versus Sisibusa. House and national allegiance didn't matter any more. And that afternoon the Zulu girl, normally deadly silent and focused, had patted her on the back and said "Good race, Boor-missie. Next time you see _my_ heels!" It was the first time in over two years at the School that they'd exchanged words. Normally they got on with things in silent rivalry. Hearing of this later, Johanna had shaken hands with Ruth N'Kweze. It took _time_ to break down old habits.

Mariella looked at her teacher and decided in this informal surrounding that she might get away with pushing it a bit. After all, her Housemistress made no secret of being a Gambler as well as an Assassin.

"Madame? How much did you win on me _this_ week?"

Johanna spluttered. Emmanuelle gave her pupil a long appraising look. Ponder Stibbons tried hard to keep his face straight.

" _Touché_ ". Emmanuelle said, softly. " I won sufficient. And I thank you. But giving you a cut would not be held to be ethical, _cherie_."

Claude the butler smoothly announced other guests were here. Ponder noticed that he was behaving less like a major-domo in a Howondalandian household and more like an Ankh-Morporkian butler; of service and deferential still, but not servile. He put it down to Willikins' informal lessons and his membership of the Guild of Butlers and Senior Domestic Servants. Johanna and Ponder paid his Guild membership fee without complaint as a perk of his employment.

Johanna took the opportunity to remind her sister about overconfidence. But seeing Emmanuelle put on the defensive had been worth it.

"We are informal here tonight." she reminded the students. "Rivka, you may in this place call me Johanna. I trust you to eddress me eppropriately et school tomorrow. _Where, Mariella, you will behave epproprietly to your teachers._ End if _enything_ you hear tonight eppears in thet School newsletter you write for, I will _know_ where it came from!"

"We have been warned, Mariella". Rivka said, with apparent seriousness. Johanna found herself liking the girl.

Her last two dinner guests arrived, and the dining party moved to the table.

* * *

Timothy and Martin Bellamy usually walked home from the Guild school without fear or undue concern. They were student Assassins, after all. While their parents usually gave them money and told them to take the public omnibus towards Pallant Street and Least Gate and to be safe, they were the sort of boys who saw busfare as a welcome addition to pocket money allowances, and preferred the half-hour walk across the City. They took the view that once past the University and crossing the Water Bridge towards home, they'd got the potentially more dangerous Morpork part of the walk out of the way and could be more relaxed once over the River in Ankh. Water Street, the raised causeway over Mort Lake, was always interesting. And as student Assassins they'd even walked the route underground: Miss Band had taken them down into the old aqueduct that ran underneath to explain how in the very old days, fresh water had been piped into the City from outside. It was rumoured Lord Vetinari's Undertaking involved repairing and renewing the old watercourse, which they knew from underground expeditions ran underneath and through the Tump. The hot baths on Hopesprings and even the very name Spa Lane were testimony to natural water being underground here, somewhere. And once past Water Street on Hope Square, there was Spa Lane and Home.

It was accepted, on a Games Wednesday, that Tim and Martin might linger at the School for a little while to do what prep was necessary for Thursday, and to socialise for a permitted hour with friends who were boarders. Evening meal at the Bellamys was usually later to allow for this, and for Dad's shift pattern at the prison.

They walked on with their friend Peggy Cregan, another day pupil whose home was at Twelve Spa Lane. There seemed to be more and more Assassin black on the street these days. Non-Assassin neighbours had mixed feelings about this, but tended to accept the argument that it made for an effective Neighbourhood Watch.

"Wonder what's for tea tonight." Tim mused. The evening was closing in and it was starting to get chilly.

"Slumpie, I hope." Martin said. "With lots of jam and custard. Mum's good at that."

The thought of a warming dessert, and lots of it, was quite appealing. They walked on. The usual evening people were out, people either returning from or going to work, and shops around Hope Square were still open.

"Mum and Dad said they were going down the road to Doctor Smith-Rhodes for drinks later." Tim remarked.

"Didn't Matron Igorina say something about that not being too wise for pregnant women?" Peggy asked. Like many students, she was curious about the sudden attack of motherhood among her teachers.

Martin winced slightly. He and Tim were both wondering what a new sibling would be like and how it would change the family. They knew Mum and Dad wanted a girl, but both were politely disdainful at the idea of a little sister. Better a brother, somebody who'd fit in with three older male siblings.

"Mum thinks it's probably going to be OK and Igorina's worrying too much." Martin said. "Mum said she's already had us three, and she doesn't remember not drinking alcohol while she was carrying us. Okay in moderation, she says."

"So if a pregnant woman drinking alcohol stunts the baby's growth…" Peggy mused, regarding Martin's nearly six-foot frame, "then you'd be six-foot ten if she hadn't."

Martin, sixteen going on seventeen, grinned. "Apparently it scrambles the kid's brains." he remarked. "Which accounts for Tim."

There was a bit of good-natured barging between the brothers. Then Tim paused, looking into the twilight and the not-adequately-lit street. All three student Assassins recognised the change in atmosphere and followed where Tim was looking.

"Thief, do you think?" Tim asked, in a lower voice. He'd been taught to observe. Martin and Peggy watched casually, taking care not to slow or stop and not to stare.

"Could be casing a few joints." Martin agreed, watching the large hooded and dark-clad figure, who was very carefully trying not to be observed. _Trying too hard_ , Peggy thought. She weighed him up. _Big man. Wide. Muscly. Street thug._ She had seen a face much like that, at close quarters, a few years before. It still gave her bad dreams. **(14)**

The three took care to walk peaceably past, letting their Assassin black speak for itself. Although the man tried to conceal his face, all three got a glimpse of him. Enough for them to be able to pick him out in a Watch lineup, if it came to that. It was not a pleasant face.

Martin nodded a "good evening" to make it clear the man had been noticed. The three walked on down Spa Lane. They heard receding footsteps behind them as the hooded man appeared to decide it was time to move on. Martin breathed out.

"Better tell Mum and Dad later." he decided. Rumours had got out about some sort of illegal unlicenced contract that had been taken out on Doctor Smith-Rhodes. The Guild teachers had been tight-lipped about this, and nothing official had been said. The general opinion among students was that if any unlicenced assassin ever went after Doctor Smith-Rhodes, she'd eat him alive. But somebody unknown with a stony killer's face appearing on Spa Lane… who _wasn't_ an Assassin…

* * *

The first course was potato and carrot soup. With, in Johanna's case, a side of shredded bog truffle. She sprinkled some of the unspeakable-but-expensive into her soup, deciding it would be easier this way.

Ruth N'Kweze looked on in quiet sympathy. She wondered, (if it ever happened and please all the Gods not for a few years yet and much though I care about him, not with _this_ man), what form her own pregnancy craving might take. She had delivered a jar of bog truffles with the personal best regards of Lady T'Malia. Johanna had accepted the gift in the spirit intended. She knew people were usually wary of food or drink gifts offered by T'Malia, but recognised generosity and concern on the part of her superior.

Ponder was in conversation with an old friend. Victor Tugelbend had brought _another_ jar of bog truffles. Arch-Chancellor Ridcully had asked him, saying with uncharacteristic reticence, that the kitchen had been having a clear-out and discovered _these_. Gods know why we kept 'em, nobody actually _eats_ the damn wretched things, even _here_ ,… er, but I did hear Doctor Smith- Rhodes has developed a women's thing, _craving_ thingamajig, for them, so if you're going over there, young Tugelbend, give Johanna and the lad me best, she might find these useful, save her a few dollars, errr…

Victor had spent a few years touring the Disc and, on return to the city, had joined the Watch as a Detective-Constable, drawn to the magnet that inexorably pulled all misfits and awkward people. The idea of a job spent sitting down indoors with no heavy lifting had appealed to him, and the Cable Street Particulars had welcomed his sort of maverick intelligence. His wizard status ratified by Ridcully under the Rincewind Clause **(15)** , he was the sole Wizard Police Constable in the Watch.

"They've disappeared." He said, frankly, as the dinner progressed to a main course of roast chicken and vegetables. With, for one diner, additional migratory bog truffles. "We know four men escaped from the Island. They crossed the Neverglades and hijacked a train. They robbed the passengers, with extreme violence. They get off the train somewhere after Skankydoodle. Then the trail goes cold. We've got people out looking, but they could be anywhere in a couple of hundred square miles with enough cash to sit it out without needing to make too much contact with the world. They could have changed their appearances. New identities. We just don't know."

"But it's possible they'll come here." Ponder said.

"Revenge appears to be the motive. Yes." Victor agreed. "If I was in their position I'd sit tight wherever I was for a few months. Wait for the chase to ease off. Then consider moving into the city. That's going to be the dangerous time for them. They'd need to get past the Watch on the gates."

He pondered this for a moment.

"Not impossible. Not even _hard_. Then they'd need somewhere to live. They'd need to establish contact with people they can trust. And they're not from this continent. They'd have to be tough to survive in Ankh-Morpork."

"But du Plessis fought on the border. In the jungles." Another diner observed. His voice was well-modulated with the slightest hint of Rimwards Howondaland. He was well-dressed in smart evening clothes, and was young and red-haired. His profession was soldier, his posting diplomatic. Julian Smith-Rhodes was a quick learner. "So he has the jungle survival skills to survive the Neverglades. He's tough. He survived a military prison and a term on Gogga Island. As far as we can piece it out, he went on to be a mercenary. Crossbow for hire. Where he met the other three. Involvement in crime going way back over twenty years. Is it possible he knows people who have contacts in this city's criminal community?"

Five people at the dinner table had been present at the Tobacco Farm. They'd all looked the captured slave overseers in the face and shuddered. And the ringleader of the slavers had looked back into their faces and taken notes. Each of the five knew they were a potential target.

"So there is danger?" Mariella Smith-Rhodes asked, politely. She found the idea both exciting and scary. It made her tingle and feel alive.

"Not to you so much." Ruth said. "Although a man like that, if he finds out about you, might see it worth his while to hurt your sister by hurting _you_."

"And that is something to consider." Emmanuelle de Laipoignard remarked. "I accept that in the eyes of these creatures I am a legitimate target. I was there. I fought in the Redoubt. I detained Lucinda Rust. They know my face. If they wish to fight, my swords are ready to meet them. But on my honour as Housemistress of Black Widow House, if they seek to attack girls I am responsible for, I shall defend my girls to the _limit_."

She softened and smiled.

"Perhaps that is the mother in me talking. And you girls have been my care for years. As dear, and as aggravating, as daughters. Or younger sisters. But my advice to you both, Rivka, Mariella, is to carry throwing knives where you can reach them. You are both good with those weapons and temperate enough to know when _not_ to deploy them. I will turn a blind eye, and in the circumstances request other teachers to allow you both to carry weapons for your possible self-defence. For I fear that you are both now associated with this household, which may be under threat, and your mere presence here makes you vulnerable."

She smiled.

"As my dear colleague and friend Miss Alice Band might say, _is anyone dismayed yet?"_

"You can each choose a set of good knives before you go." Johanna said, recognising the truth of what was being said. "Pistol crossbows, too. On loan from me."

Rivka grinned, long and slow. The graduate Assassins saw it and approved. It was the look of "I'm not seeking trouble here, but if you really want it, I'll be delighted to oblige" that they liked in pupils.

"I'm sorry to have dregged you into this, Mariella." Johanna said. She felt a mix of pride and concern. _What do I say to Mother if she gets hurt?_

Her sister smiled.

"I em being permitted to cerry weapons." she said. "This is a privilege. Even if it is most likely I will not need to use them. End if I em. I em a Smith-Rhodes, like you end Cousin Julian. Thet hes to count for something!"

"She's right." Ruth said to Julian. "You Smith-Rhodes people are completely ruthless, vindictive and callous when there's a threat to one of you. I thought my family can get nasty when they're threatened. Then I met _yours_."

Julian Smith-Rhodes smiled.

"Family trait, I'm afraid." he said. Ruth laughed in a low happy way and stroked his face. They leaned in and kissed, briefly. Mariella's eyes jolted open. Miss N'Kweze? _Cousin Julian_? She'd heard the rumours that Miss N'Kweze preferred the intimate company of white men, but she'd never have guessed at _this_ …

" _Not_ for public consumption." Johanna said, quickly. "End _not_ to go in thet newsletter, either!"

"I hope you're not shocked." Cousin Julian said, carefully. "We met at the Tobacco Fields battle. We realised we appreciated each other's company, and, er…"

"We _were_ fighting on the same side." Ruth said. "I kind of appreciate being around Julian too. And since he quite likes me, and since this isn't Howondaland, well, we thought, why not?"

"I understand." Mariella said. "I think. Et home there is Oncle Baal **."(16)**

Johanna and Julian winced. Emmanuelle laughed appreciatively. She'd _met_ the scoundrel Balthazar Smith-Rhodes. Who'd also had a partiality for black-skinned women.

"How is the old rogue doing?" she asked. "I have fond memories of him, _ma petite_. He was hard to dislike!"

"if you're staying over tonight, try not to eppreciate each other's company quite so loudly." Johanna said, frankly, to Ruth and Julian. "The whole _house_ heard you both eppreciating each other, lest time!"

And the dinner progressed. Even dessert, for Johanna, had a discreet side serving of bog truffle.

* * *

Down the street, over a different dinner, Peter and Davinia Bellamy heard their sons' story of the sinister man in the street. Davinia went into a reflective silence for a while as she considered. She conferred with Peter.

Then she packed Martin off next door to get Peggy. She took Tim by the arm.

"You know your father and I are walking up the road to see Ponder and Johanna for after-dinner drinks? Well, you're coming with us, and you're going to tell them _exactly_ what you saw. They've got direct Clacks there. This needs to get to the Guild and the Watch!"

* * *

 **That newsletter:** the _Cloak and Dagger,_ the student newspaper of the Guild of Assassins, permitted as an after-school activity for those students with an aptitude for words and seen in a positive light as a means of publicising after-school clubs, sports teams, and passing on exhortations and official messages from the senior management.

Under the editorship of Rupert Mericet **(L/Sixth Mykkims),** with input from observant and careful-with-words people like Mariella Smith-Rhodes ( **Three Black Widow** ), senior School teachers now read it very carefully for signs of sedition, satirical intent, and mention of matters embarrassing to the Guild's higher echelons. A certain amount of censorship/negotiation takes place before final publication, in fact.

Should I mention that satirical publication _**Private Eye**_ began in similar circumstances from former pupils of prestigious upscale Shrewsbury School, who had spent school days cautiously sending up and satirising School traditions and teachers? Rupert Mericet is a distant relative of Mr Mericet and shares something of the same sardonic and ironic attitude to life. Only his chosen method of inhumation is the written word. I see Rupert, after graduating, becoming Ankh-Morpork's answer to Richard Ingrams and Ian Hislop, and starting a _**Private Eye**_ for the city...

* * *

 **(1)** Johanna's friend and colleague Ruth N'Kweze had no problems with this. In her opinion her deceased uncle would be _proud_ that the warrior who had defeated him was showing great respect to his weapons and accoutrements by displaying them in the place of distinction in the nearest thing she had to a _kraa_ l. ("And just between you and me, Johanna, my father was relieved when he got the sad news of my uncle's death. He thought Uncle Dhumisani was getting a bit above himself and might make a move for the Paramountcy. You just saved him having to do something about it himself.")

 **(2)** The black Howondalandian house-staff had fretted about this too. Johanna had reassured them that while they weren't quite for display only, she'd never used a whip on a servant _in her life_ and had no intention of starting now.

 **(3)** Ponder had turned this down from "lethal" to its lowest setting, a polite reminder of "do not do this again".

 **(4)** A shameless plug for my _**Science of Discworld/The Big Bang Theory**_ crossover, _**The Many Worlds Interpretation.**_ In which Johanna and Ponder visit Pasadena, California, and learn of many things, including more than she wanted to know concerning the _**Star Trek**_ franchise. She loved the concept of bat'leth blades, and bought some back to the Disc with her. More MWI coming up soon once I've worked out how Sheldon Cooper mucks up the timelines of Roundworld and Discworld, thus creating a rather big trans-temporal anomaly. Patience!

 **(5)** If you accepted that everything exists somewhere in a Multiverse containing an infinite number of realities. Even a spherical Roundworld with no turtles or elephants to hold it up. Worf is out there somewhere. And his warrior race.

 **(6)** This is indeed the attitude taken to Jewish believers by those schools of thought within Christianity, that would otherwise be seeking to evangelise the Hell out of them as they would to people of all other clearly false and Satanic world religions. In creating Rivka and fleshing out a brief previous mention of her, I'm attempting to write in some of the positive and praiseworthy and admirable things about Jews and Israelis, in a Discworld context. Or at least the non-contentious stuff. Anyone looking for critical commentary or mordant satire on current affairs – well, this is perhaps not the place for that. Rivka I see as _sabra_ to her core. There's also a suspicion that in a world where kosher butchers exist alongside priests of a small and obscure religion that keeps itself to itself and can create golems… there _**will**_ be a people very like to Roundworld Jews.

 **(7)** Johanna's Goblin title was _Red Fox Hair, Liberator Of Goblins_. Op De Veldt Dese Nacht De Louw Geshickt (also known as Wimowe) had explained to her that her younger sister shared the red hair, was female, was clearly still a fox-cub, and had not been part of The Liberation. Therefore _Red Vixen Cub,_ with no further honorific until in the eyes of Goblins she merited one.

 **(8)** There was also the unspoken fear of _**The Fate Worse Than Death.**_ Well-brought-up White Howondalandian ladies only ever uttered this in frightened whispers. Johanna considered that in some respects she was _not_ a well-brought-up White Howondalandian lady.

 **(9)** Her two dogs had terrified the servants when they first arrived. Black Howondalandians knew there was only one reason why White Howondalandians owned Ridgebacks, and meeting _two_ of them, who had bounded excitedly over to check out the new people, had caused consternation. Johanna had needed to demonstrate that her dogs were racially colourblind.

 **(10)** Be fair. If the Watch arrested everybody in Ankh-Morpork who merely _looked_ suspicious, the whole city would be an open prison. More to the point, it would generate Too Much Paperwork.

( **11)** Usually thought of as _Mine Host Who At this Moment is Refraining From Bashing You Over The Head With A Cudgel And Turning Out your Pockets Prior To Throwing You Naked Into The Street, Squire._

 **(12)** This happened once or twice a year to clear Watch store-rooms and lock-ups. Items superfluous to investigations, unreclaimed lost property, wrested from the possession of Nobby Nobbs, or not claimed by the City, were routinely auctioned to the public. Proceeds to Widows and Orphans.

 **(13** ) Refer to the _ **Zoo Tale**_ in which Johanna explains to student Fools and allied trades about the habitat of snakes and scorpions: in the pits underneath the Patrician's Palace, and how any mime artiste thrown into a scorpion pit might, if they have the nerve, survive an hour or two in there.

 **(14)** Peggy Cregan appears as a cameo character in my story _**Murder most 'Orrible**_ , which introduces the Bellamy family. She had a bad experience as a child that led the Guild to take an interest in her.

 **(15)** _wizard status may be conferred, without need for written examination, on any who perform a great service to Wizardry or save the Disc from eldritch magical peril, tentacles optional._ Victor certainly did that in _**Moving Pictures**_. And as Ridcully pointed out, studyin' so hard for so long in order _to fail_ his exams had left him with at least a sixth-level wizardly ability. Carrot had pretended innocence when he explained to Vimes that at the time, he'd merely signed up somebody who had _failed_ his university exams and was expressly _not_ a Wizard, sir, just a normal civilian who'd attended the university for a few years but failed to qualify. Vimes accepted he'd been taken and filed Tugelbend alongside the Vampires, Zombies, golems and others who he's expressly ordered that the Watch should not recruit.

 **(16)** See my story _**The Black Sheep.**_


	6. the dark night

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that it was down to sloppy record-keeping, bad statistics, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down.**_

 _ **And on top of this my broadband router blows a gasket and I spend three days without Internet. Ah well, I got to write this chapter virtually from scratch...**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. Getting clothing that fits and doesn't look like Fools' Guild surplus found in a shonky shop. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork. Especially if somebody's arrived in town who intends to kill you.**_

 _18 Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork_

Davinia and Peter Bellamy quickly ushered the three student Assassins inside. Claude the butler raised an eyebrow.

"I know they're not expected." Davinia said. "But Doctor Smith-Rhodes needs to see them and hear what they've got to say. It's important."

The butler nodded and went to announce them.

A few minutes later, they were received in the living-room where the dining party had assembled for post-dinner drinks. Martin, Tim and Peggy were reassured to see two other students were part of a group that included four of their teachers. It made it less intimidating.

Davinia prompted her younger son with a motherly nudge. Tim remembered how to present an observational report to a senior Assassin. It had to be concise, accurate and relevant. They'd been taught, after all. He gulped, and decided to treat it like a formal test.

And the tale of the hooded man in black who'd been watching the street emerged. Peggy and Martin added their reports. The serious-looking man with the pencil moustache started asking questions and making written notes. He was introduced as Detective-Sergeant Tugelbend of the City Watch. Peggy found him scrummy-attractive, even though he must be at least thirty. She jumped as a goblin appeared from nowhere; Doctor Smith-Rhodes smiled and spoke to him in _Vondalaans_. The goblin saluted, loosely.

"Wait." Sergeant Tugelbend said, as the goblin turned to what Peggy realised was a little door in the nook by the fireplace. "I'm assuming you're off to clacks a message? Clacks this for me. City Watch, Pseudopolis Yard."

Victor wrote a message. The goblin read it back.

"Priority one. Tugelbend. Got that? Thanks."

"Same message to the Guild." Johanna added. "Priority; Dark Council. _Dankie_."

Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes stood up. He patted the hilt of his sword. Although he wore civilian clothes, some things were _expected_ of army officers.

"I feel like a walk after dinner." he said. "Victor?"

"It might need a policeman." Victor Tugelbend agreed. "Mr Bellamy?"

Peter Bellamy nodded. He patted the Prison Service issue baton hanging at his belt. After hearing his sons' story, he'd picked up his issue weapons belt, on the grounds that you never knew.

"You know, in normal circumstances you wouldn't _dream_ of leaving the ladies pretty much on their own." he remarked. His gaze took in a room full of Lady Assassins. "I suspect you'll manage, though."

Johanna smiled.

"I'm _sure_ Ponder end the young men will guard us." she said, with an innocent smile. "Julian. Wear a cloak. You are on their target list. Concealment might be edvised here. End if you hev no weapon, Victor, feel free to choose one." She waved in the general direction of the walls. Victor selected a Watch issue truncheon, the one Johanna normally carried as a Special.

Policeman, prison officer, and career soldier went for a post-prandial walk to the end of Spa Lane and back. You know. Just to take the air after dinner. The weapons they carried were a prudent precaution against it being Ankh-Morpork after dark, as you never knew.

Those left behind in the house decided to have a quiet drink, as among friends meeting informally. The older student Assassins were offered wine and the younger ones soft drinks. They talked Assassins' Guild business for a while, with Johanna and Ruth deliberately letting slip a negligient titbit or two about unpopular members of staff, in the presence of students who contributed to the school newsletter. They knew when to informally reward good students, after all.

* * *

Sam Vimes whooped. He'd been just about to call it a night and return home. But the duty operator had caught him with the clacks flimsy.

 _Prison escape/GTR. Sighting of suspect on Spa Lane. Was watching 14/18 Spa. Seen walking in direction Hope Sq/Water Street one hour ago. Investigating. Priority One. Tugelbend CSP._

"An hour ago. Could be anywhere by now." Captain Carrot remarked.

"But if Victor's convinced, that makes it _definite_." Vimes said. "Looks like the case is hot again. Can we get Angua out there? See if she can smell anything out of the ordinary? You never know. Howondalandian fast food or something."

Vimes had tried Howondalandian ethnic food. It was certainly _different._

"Get a foot patrol or two in the general area. Backup for Victor. Nothing too heavy. We don't want them getting alarmed and going to cover again. To me, it seems like they've tracked down Johanna, and they're casing her for an attack."

"Or else they _wanted_ to be seen." Carrot remarked. "To frighten and alarm, and to say they know and they could attack at any time they choose."

Vimes grunted.

"Maybe, Carrot. But putting the frighteners on Assassins is like trying to sting wasps. You can do it, but it takes a lot of sting."

As they turned to leave, the duty sergeant stopped them.

"New clacks, sir. From Ambassador van der Graaf at the Howondalandian Embassy."

* * *

Lord Downey read the clacks flimsy.

"Spa Lane." he said, reflectively. "Client observed by senior students to leave the area and to proceed in the direction of Hope Square."

"Evidently at least one of the clients is now in the city." M. le Balouard said. "They are performing basic intelligence-gathering and are now aware of Doctor Smith-Rhodes' home address. Prior, perhaps, to making an attack."

"We need a regular inobtrusive presence there." Downey said. "Undercover operatives. We also need to keep the Watch informed. We do not need any unseemly incidents where our people become suspects and are detained."

"I'll prime our people with recognised code-words, sir. Ensure that the Watch has a list, so they know who our people are."

Downey nodded.

"Remind me. Get the details of the students who recognised the threat, would you? Send them up for sherry and a commendation. Thank you."

* * *

Three men walked, seemingly peaceably, down Spa Lane, seeming to be three friends in quiet conversation, but discreetly watching the quiet suburban street for strangers and odd things that didn't fit. They encountered a Bellamy neighbour who was walking his dog. Peter exchanged greetings, then discreetly asked if the neighbour had seen anyone suspicious, perhaps somebody looking a bit Thieves' Guild.

"Business getting slack, Peter?" the neighbour asked. "Usually the Watch fill the vacant rooms in your hostel!"

"No, nothing like that." Peter Bellamy assured him. "Mr Vimes would have a word if we tried to cut out the middleman."

He wondered for a moment about whether some prison officers might benefit from signing up as Watch Specials, just to see crime and punishment from a different angle. It was an interesting idea.

"Keep your eyes open, Roger? Unlicenced thieves watching this street. It's a good idea if we watch out for them first."

 _It will do no harm to have neighbours looking out too_ , he thought. He advised the neighbour to be careful, as the man we're interested in is dangerous. "Don't confront him. Anything odd you see, tell me or Doctor Smith-Rhodes at number eighteen? Thanks, pleasant night!"

They walked on towards the light, relative bustle, and late-opening Klatchistani general store on Hope Square. Here, the suburb was busier: they could smell warm steam carrying the tang of shampoo, medicated soap and disinfectants from the public bathhouses on Hopesprings. Indeed, there was a steady trickle of people with rolled towels under their arms. Depending on the direction they were walking in, they were either clean and gleaming, or else typical city denizens carrying towels.

"Ah." said Julian Smith-Rhodes, as five intent-looking men approached them. They only coincidentally fitted the part of men in dirty jobs going for a bath at the end of their shift. And none of them were carrying towels and washbags. "Better we close up, I think."

"Gentlemen! A fine night to be out in our fair city!" said the spokes-thief, hefting his club. "You know the score, I think."

Victor Tugelbend produced his Watch badge. He couldn't go undercover with the Particulars as his face was too distinctive. So he had no worries about compromising himself. **(1)**

"Professional immunity, I think." he said. Sam Vimes had made it clear that Watch personnel were exempted Thieves' Guild insurance.

"Paid up." Julian said, opening the cloak to reveal his indemnity badge. He had opened the cloak so that, wholly coincidentally, it revealed his sword too.

Peter Bellamy laughed.

"Bodger Ferris, isn't it? And "Bad-luck" Ludd. Been a while since you were last on D-Wing. Landing Seven, I recall."

"Whoops…" said one of the thieves. If your life involved the hazard of occasional stays in the Tanty, then mugging a prison officer while you were out was not a good idea. And to try and mug a very senior screw who recognised your face was even _worse_.

"Er, Mr Bellamy, sir. I wonder if we might be allowed to rethink, here?" Ferris asked, diffidently.

"You'd better, I think." Peter said, amiably. "We'll wait for you."

The licenced Thieves went into a huddle. Then Ferris emerged.

"I can't nick you if you're operating under Charter." Victor said, pleasantly. "But the truth is, we're all either paid up or exempt. Waste of your time. And ours. You _could_ be useful, though."

He described the stranger seen on the street earlier.

"If he's the man we want, definitely also an unlicenced Thief". he said. "So sharing what you know with us isn't touting or grassing. Mr Vimes would be pleased. And for reasons I won't go into, the Assassins have an interest too. Always useful to have friends in Black."

The Thieves went into a huddle again. Then they seemed to reach an agreement.

"We bin working this general area since six o'clock." Ferris said. "Spotted this bloke about eight. We'd just let these three young Assassins past as they're trouble you _don't_ want, and anyway their Guild pays indemnity for them, right? Then it looked like there was four Assassins, this big guy in a cloak who was partway up Spa Lane just standin' there, watchin'. You know, _lurkin'._ In the shadows and things. Err. When he seen them three young Assassins had clocked him, he stood and watched them go past for a while. As if he was _rememberin'_. Then he turns and comes walkin' back to Hope Square. Errr. We sees he's a big broad bloke. Not an Assassin. Just a bloke in a cloak. Looked like a bottle covey, so we thought best not to try and ask him if he's Guild. But Titch Gibbet, who was with us, said he'd try to follow at a distance, see where he went. Get the Guild bounty for an unlicenced practitioner, you see? None of us fancied it. So we said to be careful. Waitin' for him, now."

"I'm sure I've seen him before. In the Shades." another Thief said, eager to earn a few credit points against his next stay in the Tanty. "Near the Troll's Head, with three other buggers. Sounds Howondalandian, you know the wey these people telk? Sex is whet they cerry coal in?"

Julian Smith-Rhodes noted the bad attempt at a Rimwards Howondalandian accent. He forced a smile.

" _Ja._ Some of "we people" _do_ telk thet wey. I'm from Caarp Town **(2)** in the Caarp Colony, myself. The sticky-out piece rrrright on the end of the continent. What you might call our _cherecteristic eccent_ isn't quite so obvious there."

He exaggerated his normally slight accent for emphasis and enjoyed watching the Thief wince.

Victor stepped in. Aware he'd got all the information he could from the thieves, he thanked them for their public-spiritedness and passed over a few dollars. He knew he could claim it back as informant money.

"The Fish and Ring's still open." he said, indicating a pub on Hope Square. "Have a beer on us, and we'll look out for Titch Gibbet for you."

Peter Bellamy nodded goodnight in a way that indicated he'd memorised their faces against any future professional involvement, and the two groups parted ways.

The three concerned citizens then walked to the other end of Spa Lane, Julian and Victor noting the sidestreets like Welldrake Lane, TearFair, and Happity Hocks, as well as numerous alleys and public ways in between homes. At the junction with Tump Lane and Mithering Heights, they opted to turn back, regarding the dark and silent bulk of the Tump in front of them. Mithering Heights, the winding road to the top of the Tump, was not lit. They thought twice about climbing it. **(3)**

"Somebody should patrol up there." Julian said, reading the land with a career soldier's expertise. "I'd like to know how much of Johanna's home could be overlooked by somebody with a powerful bow. I bet most of the garden's visible from up there."

"Good point." Peter agreed. "But best done in daylight."

They turned and returned to walk back down Spa Lane. They met a Watch street patrol coming the other way.

* * *

And social drinks continued at Johanna and Ponder's. The people left behind there saw no reason to behave differently just because somebody who might have a connection with a murder attempt on one or more of them had been seen lurking in the area. This was not the way the Guild thought.

Johanna accepted another Sam Vimes Special with thanks. One of the many helpful things Sybil Ramkin had done was to sympathise whole-heartedly with Johanna's "no-alcohol-in-pregnancy" regime. She had then despatched Willikins to teach Claude and Eve how to make those jolly useful non-alcoholic cocktails, the sort which kept Sam sane at the end of a long day. Similar cocktails, non-alcoholic but mimicking the effects of strong drink, were now keeping Johanna sane during pregnancy.

Emmanuelle, who was under a Quirmian medical regime, happily sipped an Überwaldean hock of character and distinction. Davinia was content with a heavily diluted gin and tonic, which she knew from three previous experiences was a mother's little helper in pregnancy. She knew, carefully and sparingly taken, it was a mother's little helper _after_ the kids were born, too. _Juniper berries are good for a pregnant woman,_ she reflected, happily _. And I should know. Therefore gin, to me, is practically medicinal_. She listed the alchemical agents present in _juniperus commenis_ and its fruit, and by extension in gin, to herself. _Pinene, myrcene, sabinene, limonene, cymene, borneol, camphene, juniperine, terpenic alcohol, and terpineol…_

"Can you dilute this tonic water with a little bit more gin, for me?" she asked Eve the maid. "Thank you!"

She turned and met her sons' disapproving gaze.

"Look." She said, kindly. "What have I taught you all about juniper? It's a muscle relaxant. It's an astringent and natural cleanser. It eases the joints. It refreshes. It's good for respiration."

Mariella Smith-Rhodes stored up a new euphemism for _pissed as a fart_ for possible future use in the _**Cloak And Dagger**_. She speculated to herself on its possible use, knowing several of her teachers were reputed to fall back on the gin bottle as a teaching aid.

 _Mr Moody was seen to be in great need of muscle-relaxant after a stressful week….. Doctor Smith-Rhodes offered Doctor Bellamy a liniment, to be taken internally, that would bring about a degree of muscle relaxation…. No, that's unfair. She's not drunk at all. Not like Father after the witblits… and Doctor Bellamy is OK. Mr Moody, on the other hand. They said his muscles were so relaxed at that Staff party that he had to be helped home to bed._

"Francis Ptarmigan was keen on demonstrating the Djelibeybian national beverage." Emmanuelle observed. " _Arakh,_ I understand it is called. Distilled from the fruit of the date palm."

"In the interests of greater international understanding." Ruth N'Kweze agreed, with a sideways _Are you getting all this?_ look at Mariella. "Arakh is common all across the Klatchian end of the Howondalandian continent, I understand?"

Rivka-bin-Divorah winced slightly. She'd once witnessed an unwary Klatchian pupil attempt to correct Doctor Smith-Rhodes on her geography. The luckless Klatchian had said something like "But miss, in _accepted_ geographical usage, is it not more correct to talk about Howondaland as being a remote sub-region of the _Klatchian_ continent?"

The Klatchian had not made that error again. Rivka had learnt a lesson that accepted geographical terminology is subjective, according to which end of the continent you happen to have been born on, and whose empire and hegemony you do not consider your nation to be a part of. Rivka decided to refer to her own country as being in _Hubwards Klatch,_ to save the sort of misunderstanding that inevitably led to closer acquaintance with the substances to be found at the bottom of a large animal cage. She noted that Zulus too referred to Howondaland as the continent and Klatch as a mere country within it. Ankh-Morpork – and Klatch – took the opposing point of view.

But she appreciated there was a sort of test going on. _Some_ of the little snippets of information could freely be hinted at in the next C &D. She gathered that teachers in the Classics department were seen as hard work by their peers in the staffroom and that Mr Moody was not universally loved, even by other teachers. Mr Ptarmigan, who taught Tsortean and Djelibeybian, was seen as a younger version of Moody.

"You could put it in a cartouche." Dr Bellamy remarked. "Newt, amphora, rat with crossed eyes, newt again, amphora inverted to convey the abstract idea of emptiness."

"Add the quilled feather symbol to denote a scribe or teacher." Emmanuelle observed. "A newt holding a quill, _peut-être_ …"

As the doorbell rang, Mariella and Rivka exchanged a look. It said " _Don't forget this_." Mariella thought furiously.

 _We've heard a lot tonight. It now falls to us to separate out what is meant for wider dissemination. Speak to Rupert Mericet and discuss it with him?_

Then Claude was there, announcing Captain von Überwald of the City Watch.

* * *

Titch Gibbet followed the large man, carefully, back into the city. As he trailed his mark along Water Street and through the University Backs, he could _taste_ the fifty dollars finders' fee for a Guild member who ran down an unlicenced Thief. It had been a slow few weeks on the streets. Very little actual cash or fenceables. Too many people took insurance out these days. Although the Guild paid a subsistence income, a lot depended on performance bonuses of one sort or another. And Titch shuddered. Any more of this hand-to-mouth living and he might be forced to take an actual _job_. You know, _work._ Ten hours on a building site or off-loading ships at the docks. It didn't bear thinking about.

He discreetly followed his mark down into the outskirts of the Shades. He was being careful. He sensed this was a hard man, a bottle covey, who didn't want to be followed. But if he could get a street, a door, a house number… he could go back to the Guild and lodge his report. Maybe get an _advance_ on that fifty dollars.

And then, in the dark ill-lit street. A hand came from behind him and clapped over his mouth. A deep voice growled into his ear.

"Thought you were being _clever_ , bro? I went to know why you were following me. End I went to know _fest_!"

He recognised the clipped accent as Howondalandian. He struggled until a punch in the kidney sent shocks of pain through his entire body. Then he felt himself being dragged into an alley, where his world became, very briefly, one of terror and pain.

* * *

"Hi, Johanna." Angua said, briskly. The two Ridgebacks flowed around her, happy to be near her but showing respect. She petted both, allowing this. Angua's normal relationship with very large dogs involved their recognising she was not to be treated with disrespect and for them to be very obedient _indeed_ around her. Kaffee and Crème had learnt this early. For her part, Angua knew that if very large hunting dogs came in ones or twos she _could_ deal with it in a very direct way, if she had to. As they could badly injure a werewolf if not deterred and if a pack's basic hunting instincts over-rode caution, she much preferred the "let's make friends here" option. So long as they recognised which bitch was alpha. As with Harry King's Lipzwigers, Überwaldean hunting dogs originally bred in a country where werewolves could be a problem, bluff could also work, but where a dog species had been bred for seriously big game, she much preferred "friends". And Ridgebacks had been bred for _lion-hunting_ , for goodness sake. As for Kaffee and Crème – well, a friend of Mistress who could take them for walkies either in human or doggy form was a friend indeed. "I talked to Victor and the rest outside." she said. "It looks like I'm needed. Can I borrow somewhere private to Change?"

Johanna suggested she used an upstairs bedroom, and whistled her dogs away from following. They were used to Angua in both her forms; but being present during the Change itself was something she firmly deterred. The two maids looked at each other, neither wanting to be the one to be designated Lady's Maid to a werewolf. Blessing had once needed to hear some gentle soothing voices, and a brief introduction to the idea that werecreatures, on _this_ continent, didn't _always_ want to tear your throat out. But, Angua reflected, people coming from a place where popular legend and a certain degree of inescapable reality had spread the idea there were such things as _wereleopards_ needed gentle handling. And it wasn't Blessing's fault: she'd been taught to offer maid service to white ladies who casually announced they needed to borrow a room to change. Or in Angua's case, to Change.

After some minutes a large golden-haired canine creature bounded down the stairs. Blessing fled to the kitchen, whimpering slightly. Claude, who had been instructed, held the front door open.

"Good hunting, madam." he said to the night, unperturbed. Johanna smiled. Those additional lessons at the Guild of Butlers, which she was paying for, were clearly working **.(4)** She whistled back Kaffee and Crème, who clearly wanted to follow.

* * *

The three other men in the shabby sparsely-furnished upstairs rooms heard Preet duPlessis returning. They looked at each other apprehensively. Hard men themselves, they knew Preet was hardest of all. And looking at Ouistrehaam's purple-bruised face and blackened eye, they knew not to offend him. And to a man, they knew Preet was mad. Insane. But he'd got them off the island and through that verdammte jungle swamp and then to here, by degrees… a city where a man could _disappear_. Over a million people. They just had to bide their time. Do the thing Preet wanted. Hopefully going after Assassins would kill him. Then they were free. They just had to ensure they stayed alive. Then vanish. Free men. But _Assassins_ … they'd seen how those people fought. Those terrifying moments in the Tobacco Farm, locked in the stockade, sure eight hundred fighting warriors would overwhelm the flimsy defence of so few people. Hoping the fat kaffir prince had given orders they were to be kept alive and freed, to continue the easy life they'd had, working all they could out of the snotty shitty little gremlins, lower even than niggers. That ice-cold blonde woman had said, in her superior way, they were important, hadn't she?

And then the incredible had happened and the onrush of a full native regiment had collapsed into a shambles. They'd fallen into pits, run shrieking and barefoot over caltrops, one of those damn women had given orders for an arrow storm that had thinned them out even more, they'd even had some _verdamte_ automatic crossbow set up discharging two or three big powerful bolts every second, powerful enough to punch through one kaffir soldier and get the man behind _him_ … and then sometimes the man behind _him_ … then the ones in black, the others in the Ankh-Morporkian uniforms, and the handful of soldiers from Home, they'd fought like demons in the close-combat, each of them taking down three or four of the Prince's army. And then the little snotties, who'd incredibly somehow _armed themselves,_ had rolled up what was left of the impi from the flank.

They'd seen it, watching from over the top of the prison stockade. That bloody lawn-ornament in the golden armour, going through men twice his size with that axe, as if they were made out of cheese… the kaffir girl, the other sort, the Zulu, who'd taunted men into fighting her and kebbabed at least three on her assegai. Man, that Zulu was smoking hot, you could break the Racial Separation Act with a piece like that in your bed, but she could _fight_! And the one in charge, the lethal red-haired girl Preet wanted to kill slowly and painfully… was he _insane_?

They said she was married and pregnant now. Preet still wanted to kill her.

DuPlessis surveyed his associates. They noticed, uneasily, he had blood on his hands and tunic. His knuckles were torn as if he'd been punching somebody repeatedly. But he seemed to have controlled his ever-present rage. For now.

"We may have to move soon." he said, eventually. He spoke in Vondalaans. "There _was_ this little weasel. Following me."

They heard the past tense and were not surprised.

"Luckily, he was not the police. He was not the Guild of Assassins. He _was_ Thieves' Guild. Whatever that is. Well, he's nothing now."

"The body?" somebody asked. Bodies followed Preet. They'd followed him all his life, through at least three prisons. Du Plessis laughed, sourly.

"Dumped. But nowhere near here. They say the Watch here clears up two or three bodies a day. Nothing new for them."

"Ja, but the Watch here is run by Sam Vimes." said a braver henchman. "We saw some of his people in the Tobacco Farm. They're not the usual thick Watchmen. They're taught to think and fight."

Du Plessis scowled at him.

"Wish _Ouistrehaam_ had been taught to think." he said. "His little talk to the lady in the food store earlier could have sold us all!"

Ouistrehaam winced. The most personable of the four, he'd been sent out to get food supplies in, earlier in the day. Du Plessis had drummed it into them not to have anything to do with Rimwards Howondalandians in this city, to do nothing to draw attention to their nationality. It was a big city with an Embassy and an expat community. And wherever you found an Embassy and expats, you inevitably got BOSS with its spying and anonymous reporting. New people in town would arouse interest. We do not want to draw the interest of BOSS, do we?

And what had Ouistrehaam done? He'd found that fat kaffir's food store. _All Jolson's Howondaland Delicatessen. All The Tastes of the Continent Under One Roof._

* * *

Katerina Vinhuis (née Katarina de Mauritz) let a look of puzzled perplexity cross her face. She had now been twelve years in Ankh-Morpork in the Diplomatic Service, and a clue to her essential personality is that she is _still_ only Senior Social Secretary at the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy. Not, in the opinion of Ambassador van der Graaf, that this mattered much. She was good at her not-especially-onerous job and her sparkling, if somewhat vacuous, blonde beauty was useful for charming and captivating Embassy guests and relaxing them, often to the point where they might let slip more than they intended. She knew not to sit the Zlobenian Ambassador directly next to his Borogravian counterpart at formal dinners, for instance, and could stack the little gold-foil-wrapped chocolate balls just _so_ on a silver salver.

And she had contracted a good marriage, to Second Secretary Martin Vinhuis. Martin, a man who stood two promotions away from becoming an Ambassador himself, stood to gain by this and in Pieter's opinion had married the perfect ambassadorial wife: attractive, charming, personable, loyal and not overburdened with brains or ambition. It was accepted that when Martin ascended to a First Secretary position somewhere, possibly in Aceria or Fourecks, she would travel with him as part of the package. Pieter van der Graaf would be genuinely sorry to lose both. Friejda too: part of Katerina's remit, unofficially, was as Lady's Companion to the Ambassador's wife. Friejda had been unstinting in equipping the girl with the necessary soft skills to function at a higher diplomatic level. She would need them. Acerians were friendly and hospitable people, but could be frankly direct. Fourecksians tended not to have too many higher social graces but were respectful of those who did.

Katerina looked to her husband for reassurance, aware the temperature round the table had suddenly gone a little chillier, but not comprehending exactly _why_. Pieter van der Graaf allowed his face to show sympathy for his Second Secretary. Friejda, when younger, had committed the odd _faux pas_ , but never a _pas_ as _faux_ as this one.

"Tell me again." The Ambassador recommended, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "The man who engaged in conversation with you. At Mr Jolson's excellent produce shop. Which you patronise for provisions from Home, such as the excellent _boerewois_ which graces our plates tonight."

"He was a rough sort." Katerina admitted. "But not hostile. A little pleasant, in his way. He apologised for approaching a clearly married woman and stressed he meant no disrespect, but he had heard me speaking _Vondalaans_. It had to him been a long time since he heard the language from a woman. I asked if he had been in the military, he said yes but did not elaborate, he said he was new in town and he was looking for the whereabouts of a lady called Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who he had met in Howondaland. Well, I said that was a coincidence, for as you know I was at school with Johanna, and our separate ways afterwards brought us both to Ankh-Morpork, and…"

"So you told him?" the Ambassador said, with surface calm.

"Well, yes. Was I doing wrong? I took him to be a fellow she might have had dealings with when she was in the Army. A man she commanded, perhaps, or an old comrade…"

Pieter van der Graaf wondered again how the same boarding school could have produced two such complete opposites. The frothy Katerina, who couldn't think much further than what gown to wear for the next formal ball, and his purposeful combative niece, who selected her weapons with the same diligent care Katerina took over make-up. And it puzzled him that they were friends still. Katerina had been Maid of Honour at Johanna's wedding, he recalled. Made for some fine-looking iconographs, alongside that very personable fellow Victor Tugelbend, who had been Best Man. **(5)**

"And it did not occur to you to report this _earlier_?" van der Graaf probed. Katerina looked puzzled. He decided to be gentle.

"Kindly report to Liutnant Verkramp after dinner." he said. "No, you're not in trouble. But he can take a formal statement and show you iconographs of some wanted men. Some _dangerous_ wanted men. BOSS are collaborating with the City Watch and other agencies, on recapturing them before they can cause trouble."

He stood up.

"I will leave the table for a while." He announced. "This is not disrespect. I need to speak to the Duty Officer and clacks a couple of messages. Hopefully I shall not be long."

"Johanna's not in any _danger,_ is she?" Katerina said, looking stricken and worried. "And her _child_?"

Van der Graaf smiled.

"Not _that_ much more than usual, no." he remarked. "She lives an interestingly eventful life."

* * *

Sam Vimes frowned. He had met up with Victor Tugelbend and the others at Hope Square. The helpful Thieves had been rousted from the pub and shown iconographs. Three out of the five had recognised Preet du Plessis and said, in as many words, "Yeah, that's him. Grown his hair longer and got a bit of a beard. But definitely him. Have you found Titch yet? If that bugger gets him _first_ …"

Angua had located them by smell, and she looked up to Carrot in a meaningful way.

"Have you anything that belonged to Mr Gibbet?" he asked the thieves. "If my…associate… here can get a smell, she can follow it."

"Sure, Mr Carrot. Got his scarf here. If Miss An.. _your police dog_ … might care to?"

Vimes sighed. These days, everyone diligently kept up a pretence that they didn't know who the werewolf in the Watch was. The secret had inevitably leaked out, by degrees. He perked up. There were now two other werewolf constables. One a regular and one a Special. _Their_ identities were still secret, for the moment. Let 'em carry on congratulating themselves for thinking they've worked it out about Angua. Deflects attention away.

Angua and Carrot raced away towards Water Street. Vimes watched them go.

"We'll find Titch Gibbet." Vimes reassured them. "One way or the other. He's definitely in danger, though. If we get him first we'll put a guard on him."

"And if you _don't_?" Ludd asked.

Vimes sighed.

"Then I'm very sorry for him, Mr Ludd." he said, honestly.

He turned to confer with Victor and the others.

"I had a message from the Howondalandian Embassy. Arrived just as we were turning out. Apparently there's been a security leak there. An Embassy employee met one of our charming foursome in town and he got her to tell him where Johanna lives."

Julian Smith-Rhodes looked impassive. He lived in at the Embassy and had got to know some of the characters there. He reflected on low-level staff, Ankh-Morporkians with security clearances, or else people from Home; spinsters or divorcees in the clerical pool who could be easily flattered by unexpected male attention. Apparently this was a favoured tactic of spies the world over. Or a disgruntled put-upon black servant, deliberately being indiscreet in revenge for some unthinking slight or other. **(6)**

"Which explains why he was here knowing exactly which street to look at." Julian said. Vimes nodded.

"And it seems my sons are now mixed up in this." Peter Bellamy remarked. "That little detail about this du Plessis character watching and observing the three students who clocked him in the street. If they got a good look at _his_ face, he probably got a good look at _theirs_."

Peter was suddenly a concerned father. Vimes patted his shoulder, knowing exactly how he'd felt the night the Dwarfs tried to kill Sybil and Young Sam.

"Well. If they're at Johanna's still, we can run the iconographs past them. Get them to ID this character. Tomorrow morning, I'll have men visit All Jolson's food store. Find who else was in the shop when Public Enemy Number Two dropped by for a… _boorvoice inna bun,_ or a _bunny chow,_ or whatever. Get them to ID this one. See if we can pick up a trail. Your job, Victor? Thanks. Captain Smith-Rhodes, can you find out which Embassy employee dropped Johanna right in it? Remind that little shit Verkramp he's sharing his information with us, whether he likes it or not? And tell him to go easy on _his_ interrogation. I want nobody shot while trying to escape, or committing suicide by throwing themselves out of a high window, or beating themselves up with a lead-filled rubber hose out of spite just to make BOSS look bad. I'd quite like to be able to speak to this person myself, in fact. Reassure her we have _rules_ about questioning witnesses. Understood?"

"Completely, Commander Vimes." Julian assured him. Julian Smith-Rhodes had no time for BOSS either. And he out-ranked Verkramp.

* * *

Much later that night, Johanna laid in bed, thinking furiously. Tracking down her home address had probably been no great stretch for the men who were pursuing her. It had been in the _**Times**_ , for one thing, and Ponder's entry in _**Who's Whom**_ **(7)** would have listed it. She glanced towards the over-and-under crossbow on the nightstand within easy reach. She felt the reassuring weight of the sheathed throwing knives on her arms. Regrettably, she'd had to give up wearing a reserve set on her legs, as they were getting harder to reach. Her machete was propped up by the bed, again within easy reach.

Next to her, Ponder was in deep sleep. She frowned. Much though she loved him, she was taking his ability to fall into easy deep sleep as a personal insult. The Bump made sleeping on her front impossible. Sleeping on her side, the weight shifted uncomfortably. Not only the Bump, but the unfeasibly larger bosom that her state had gifted her as a courtesy detail. Sleeping on her back propped up with pillows was the only way.

And the baby was starting to move and kick, as if constrained by its surroundings and wanting to get out of there. Johanna whole-heartedly approved of this and considered it a worthy goal, something for the child to strive towards, as quickly as possible. _A nanny will be needed. More expense._

And worst of all, the crazy senseless verdammte night itches. Her legs, her feet, her belly. Trying to scratch would only awaken Ponder and she would feel guilty.

 _And my mother had five?_ she wondered. _And my sister Agnetha? What makes women come back for_ _ **more**_ _of this?_

Almost everyone had returned home. Davinia had escorted her sons and Peggy back down the street. Emmanuelle had called a cab for herself and the two students. Victor had left on police business. The only two guests to be offered overnight accommodation had been allocated a bedroom furthest away from Johanna at the other end of the house. Even so it had still been _audible_. The regular unmistakable noises of bedsprings and headboard. She sighed. Getting Julian and Ruth together in Ankh-Morpork had appealed to her sense of humour, as well as a nice thing to nudge her widowed friend towards. But they were in a place where they necessarily had to be discreet. Johanna felt she had to offer them space and discretion. Noblesse oblige, and all that. Even here, the son of a prestigious White Howondalandian family had to be careful. As did a Crown Paramount Princess of the Zulu Empire. While it wasn't illegal, they had to take precautions. Johanna hoped they were taking the _other_ sort of precautions too. While part of her wished pregnancy on Ruth so she could discover what it felt like, the larger and more sensible part agreed that a child who would simultaneously be a Smith-Rhodes _and_ a member of the Zulu Royal House was something neither country was quite ready for. Yet.

Johanna heard a vague noise downstairs. She heard Claude the butler say "Proceed upstairs, madam. Your clothing is laid out for you."

And then the patter of doggy feet. Not Kaffee or Crème, they were piled up and sleeping in their basket at the foot of the bed.

She sighed and began the ungainly rolling motion that she had discovered was the only way a heavily pregnant woman could get out of bed. It was clumsy and inelegant, but she managed to get both feet planted on the floor and with a heave pulled her torso upright. Noting with disapproving envy that Ponder was still deeply asleep, she let her feet grope for slippers.

Counting passing seconds for just long enough for the Change to happen and for Angua to be well advanced in getting dressed, she went for a chat with her. On the way, she thanked her butler for his diligence and requested one last task before he went to his own bed: tea for two, to be brought to the Grafin von Überwald's room? _Dankie_.

* * *

"At least I found out her address." Ouistrehaam said, with as much rebellion as he could muster. His damaged face was testimony to the rage of du Plessis, who looked on with stony contempt. He paused for a long moment before speaking. Ouistrehaam wondered if he had pushed it too far and was in line for another beating. He winced.

"Ja." Du Plessis rasped. He lifted and slammed down the book on the table. It was quite a thick book. "So did I."

Later on, Ouistrehaam and Liumans took a discreet look. It was called _**Who's Whom**_ and appeared to be a directory of notable people in and around Ankh-Morpork. It listed names, titles, academic conferments, medals and distinctions, armed forces ranks and distinctions, current occupation or reason for being noteworthy as well as hobbies and interests. It also helpfully listed their addresses. There was also a city map with locations marked in pencil.

"I've decided." Du Plessis said from behind them. "We do a wet job tomorrow morning. If the Watch are all going to be guarding the Smith-Rhodes woman as if she were a pile of gold, we're leaving her alone. For now. We'll be hitting a different target. One they've not seen any of us go near. So far. while they arer watching Spa Lane, we will be _elsewhere_."

* * *

This is all very unwise." Ruth N'Kweze said, in a faraway voice. "Completely foolhardy and over-confident, and can only lead to ruin."

She stroked Julian Smith-Rhodes' bare back up and down with the back of her leg. He smiled in an equally blissed-out sort of way and stroked her face.

"I agree." He replied. "Completely stupid. Wrong thing to do. So shall we enjoy it while it lasts?"

"Ride to ruin and social disgrace together, sort of thing." she agreed. "But, anyway. Shall we get down to business?"

"If we must." Julian agreed. He made a pretence of clearing his throat.

"My nation's government, insofar as its intentions are known to Ambassador van der Graaf, would like it to be made known to your nation's government that reinforcement of the military fortress at Lawke's Drain is not meant as a hostile act and no adverse intention should be drawn. Two more regiments of cavalry will be temporarily based there for five months so that they can take advantage of natural cavalry country – on our side of the river – for purposes of training and field exercise. Your turn?"

"My father, in explicit written instructions to my uncle the Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, considers it advantageous if your nation's government accepts that the build-up of forces in the Ulunghi province is due to manoeuvres and training next spring. That we have no intent to invade or make incursions on your side of the border. Klatchian and Ankh-Morporkian military attachés have been invited as independent witnesses and international observers to a muster of the Impis, and have been invited to testify to the international community that we're not there to fight a war with your nation. Your go?"

"Mr van der Graaf believes we need some sort of informal treaty about how many diamonds each of our countries can release on world markets every year." Julian said. "He appreciates there can be short-term gain for us if we flood the market with more than it can carry, thus driving the price down and rendering your nation's exports relatively worthless. But that can only blow back on us in the long run. Same if your people try economic warfare. We both end up hurting."

"Cutting me own throat." Ruth agreed. "And to all intents and purposes the world market for diamonds is _here_ in this city. Vetinari would not be a happy Patrician if we play silly games with price-rigging."

"Mr van der Graaf is speaking for some very highly placed people at Home." Julian added. "My father amongst them."

"And your father has suggested you use your informal channel of diplomatic communication to start a deniable discussion." Ruth mused, wriggling deliciously.

"In the good old pragmatic Smith-Rhodes family tradition." Julian agreed. "We do what works. Whatever makes the Family stronger. And Father accepts that several thousand miles from Home where some things don't matter so much, I should get all sowing of wild oats out of my system in whatever way I see fit. His words. He also thinks if it gets the family a reliable direct line to your government, then he's not inclined to be censorious. He thinks this could be useful."

"And a century ago there was a big scandal about one of your ancestors marring a Boor." Ruth remarked, lazily. She wiggled her hips. "That was thought of as socially shocking. And look who eventually emerged out of _that_ mixed marriage."

"Sir Cecil wanted that because he wanted closer ties with the Boors." Julian said. "He could see a time when that would be useful. And thus we end up with Cousin Johanna."

"And Mariella." Ruth reminded him.

"Yes. And Mariella." He paused, reflectively. "I'm ninety per cent sure she'll keep the secret. I hope we didn't shock her _too_ much."

"Make that a hundred." Ruth replied. "She's a clever kid. I teach her. She's got Smith-Rhodes family values, like loyalty. She likes you. I _think_ she likes me. Hard to tell."

"Does she ever send you up in this school magazine?"

"Not yet. They save that for staff members they _really_ don't like."

They agreed that they'd both, wholly coincidentally of course, turn up at the Royal Bank at the same time, preferably with an economics-minded person from their respective Embassy in tow, to seek to view the wondrous Glooper machine and its keeper, Herbert Turvy. Professor Turvy could then be prevailed upon to explain more about how rigging the diamond market would be a bad thing, using the Glooper to demonstrate how messing with one of your country's principal trading exports could lead to trouble and economic hard times. And possibly war.

" _Somebody's_ got to keep them straight." Ruth remarked.

"I'm forced to agree with you. I'd rather like to grow old in a peaceful prosperous country. With friendly neighbours."

"Fine by me, friendly neighbour." Ruth said. She looped her arms around Julian. "Are you up to another bout of me being useful to the Smith-Rhodes family interests?"

* * *

Angua briefed Johanna on the night's events so far. They drank some very good tea sitting side by side on the bed.

"So Davinia's sons have been drawn in." Johanna said, thoughtfully. "She will not like that. She responds decisively to threats to her femily. She becomes a mother bear fighting for her cubs. I would not wish to fight her in thet mood."

Angua nodded.

"We've got to end this." she said. Decisively."

"Ja. It is not looking good. At least we now have sightings of those people. En idea they may dwell in the Shades. They must know the search will soon narrow down."

"I'm afraid they'll come for you. Soon." Angua said. Johanna nodded. In the distance the muffled sound of the bedspring duet began again.

"If you're off-duty." Johanna said. "You are very welcome to stay here tonight. If you _can_ sleep, thet is."

"Julian and Ruth?" Angua asked. Johanna nodded, grimly.

"If thet girl does not watch out, she will be the _fourth_ pregnant Essessin!"

"Now _there's_ an international incident waiting to happen." Angua said, drily. "What does her father think about the possibility of a half-white grandchild?"

"Don't go there." Johanna said.

"Or else a half-black Smith-Rhodes…"

"Who would not be the first." Johanna sighed. "Trust me. It hes heppened. Members of my femily do not like to talk ebout it very much, though. I told you ebout Oncle Baal?" **(8)**

They changed the subject.

"This incautious Thief. Titch Gibbet." Johanna said. The question hung heavy.

"I tracked his scent as far as Pewter Street." Angua said. "In the fringes of the Shades. Then there was a lot of blood. I traced the blood down to Oxpens. But then you start to smell a _lot_ of blood. Lost it in the slaughterhouse smells. I don't think we'll find him alive."

"But in all probability, the men we seek are in the Shades." Johanna said.

"Hard to track men in there. We're putting out the usual probes. Letting it be known there's money for reliable sightings. That's usually the best way of finding somebody in the Shades who doesn't want to be found."

Angua sighed.

"But when they next break cover, maybe go for one of the people on their hit list…"

Johanna nodded.

"Thet is perheps the only way. Engua, do you wish me to clecks the Yard to say you can be contacted here?"

She stood up, unsteadily. Angua watched with interested concern.

"Johanna?"

"Ja?"

"What's it, you know, _like_ to be pregnant?"

* * *

 **(1)** Besides, he had a suspicion that the witch who had once stolen his Watch badge (until Sybil Ramkin had got it back for him) had put a word of _you would not want to know what the alternative to "blessing" is_ on it. As a wizard he could sense magic nearby.

 **(2)** Originally a fishing port. So near the Rim, fish struggling not to be swept into the Rimfall were abundant there. It was home port for the Smith-Rhodes mercantile fleet, who reasoned that being based _on_ the absolute midpoint of Cape Terror, they could hug the shore in either direction until they hit safer waters, and not actually need to risk _crossing_ the feared strait. It was a strategy that had helped make the family rich. Sitting on the absolute epicentre of Cape Terror, in the quiet and calm of the eye of the abyss, was held by others to be something that subtly defined the wider Smith-Rhodes family.

 **(3)** I'm working from the detailed map in the back of _**The Compleat Ankh-Morpork**_ here. All the action takes place in grid square C2. All streetnames and the interestingly-titled pub are correct, with the exception of Hope Square: this just appears as a large open space, treelined on one side, where Spa Lane meets Hopesprings and Water Street. Hope Square is my name: it felt right. There is also a public bath-house, more than one, in fact, in the general area, suggesting an enterprising Ankh-Morporkian mentality has taken advantage of the hot springs from which Spa Lane and Hopesprings take their name: one is situated at _Clean Cut._

 **(4)** Intermediate Butlering 1.05: you will deal with all sorts of houseguest. They all deserve your respect and consideration. Werewolves are not always titled people but it is wisest to work from the basic assumption that the lowest social rank equates to that of a country squire. Many will be Grafs, Grafins, Margraves, a rank that equates to Count or Marquess in our nobility. Even if the Gnadige Frau Grafin prefers to take her dinner from a bowl under the table, you will facilitate this with the understanding and respect due to a titled person, and serve her with due courtesy. Ensuring an adequately sized "catflap" is installed in the door should be a priority. NB: this is to be described as "an access portal for the differently abled" and NOT as a "catflap", saving that your Master or Houseguest may well be a were-leopard from the Howondalandian continent, some of whom are Princes or Princesses of the relevant Paramount House…. In this case, and only in this case, the demotic form is perfectly acceptable.

 **(5)** Johanna and Ponder had agreed on this. If the wedding iconographs were going to be there forever and outlast not only the relative youth of the married couple but go into family posterity, at least _some_ of them had better look good. A Best Man like Victor and a Maid of Honour who looked like Katerina… it was a no-brainer, really. Her cousin Suki, the journalist, had whistled appreciatively and ensured the photos got into a _lot_ of publications. As she said, good-looking people at Society events make the illustrated papers.

 **(6)** When Julian found out the actual truth, he would not be greatly surprised.

 **(7)** A very genteel and grammatically correct directory of prominent people in Ankh-Morpork. The Vice-Chancellor of Unseen University certainly merited an entry _ **. Twurp's Peerage**_ only catalogued the nobility.

 **(8)** Shameless plug: to my story _**The Black Sheep,**_ in which Balthazar Smith-Rhodes is introduced. Let us say his interests in women companions are shared by Julian.

 _Notes dump:_

 _ **ontsteking van hoef van paard**_ _– "inflammation of horse's hoof", laminitis (veterinary)_

 _What do women 6 months gone hate about being pregnant? back pain, leg pain, poss. of varicose veins, swollen ankles, ungainly walk, the weight gain – over two stone, 30lb – breast size going up by two cups, wired underwear become painful, belly button popping inside out, baby starts to kick and shift, limited bladder capacity, people asking if they can pat the lump, other people patting without asking… constipation…..hormonal changes. Bladder control issues. 4 times a night. Less tolerance of husband. See ._

 _He's behaving pretty much as normal, she is on a shorter fuse, husband gets it._

 _Cravings may fade, ease or mutate into something else. Hmmm. Where can I go from bog truffles…._

 _pregnancy-stages/6-months-pregnant/_

 _Clumsiness. Must annoy an Assassin._


	7. A terrorist attack in Ankh-Morpork

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. I may write about it sometime as the hospital I was sent to (Stepping Hill, Stockport) was and possibly remains centre of an investigation into the mysterious deaths of patients. Apparently one or more rogue nurses was bumping people off. Allegedly. My gut feeling is that it was down to sloppy record-keeping, bad statistics, people covering their arses after nicking controlled drugs, and general bad management. But I'm here and alive and my rogue pneumo and pleurises have settled down.**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. Getting clothing that fits and doesn't look like Fools' Guild surplus found in a shonky shop. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork. Especially if somebody's arrived in town who intends to kill you.**_

 _ **long one this time - double-length. Hoping it holds together!**_

* * *

 **STIBBONS, Emeritus Professor Ponder. (Ponder, or "Harry").** Assumed Vice-Chancellorship of Unseen University in AMCY 2004, the Year of the Pensive Hare in the Century of the Reciprocating Marmoset. _b._ 16 Ick 1972, Ankh-Morpork. Parents undisclosed, but raised by Miss Perennia Stibbons and Miss Impetua Stibbons (deceased), his paternal aunts. _m._ Doctor Johanna Famke Smith-Rhodes ( _AG School and Witwatersrand, R.H_.) DiPE (AGS) BSc.( _W'w'rand_ ), BScI. (AGS), MA(AGS), DMaP(AGS), PhD(UU). Ed. Unseen University Preparatory School and Middle School, then at UU. Graduated B.F and in 1985 then in 1987. Director of Misapplied Science in the High Energy Magic Building. Consultant Director of the Thaumatalogical Park. Elevated to University Faculty 1991. HEM, , Reader in Non-Volatile Intelligence, Cantoride Speaker in Slood Refurgance, Praelector, Administrator of the Roundworld Project, Coadvocate in HEX Studies, Visiting Lecturer in Quantum Physics ( _California Institute of Technology{CalTech}, Pasadena, CA_ ), Professor of GBT Engineering, Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic, Reader In Invisible Writings, Custodian of the Cabinet of Curiosities, Master of the Traditions, and Project Co-ordinator. Also _de facto_ University Bursar. _Publications_ : include _Rotation of Topological Objects In n-Dimensional Space_ (UU Press) _Address:_ 18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork. _Nat:_ Ankh-Morporkian, also Rimwards Howondalandian by marriage.

Sam Vimes sighed, shook his head and put down the thick, wrist-aching volume of _**Who's Whom**_ **.** He closed the book with a decisive snap.

"I don't know, Carrot." he said. "You tell people to be careful about putting information out in public. You never know who's going to read it. And then the people at _**Who's Whom**_ send you a fill-in-the-blanks form for your free inclusion. You feel flattered, don't you? You've made it in your career. This is _proof_. So you send the lot back, including your home address. Vanity publishing. No wonder we keep an office copy. To some people this reads _Who was Burgled by Who_. Or _whom_." **(1)**

Carrot nodded, soberly. "Not that it matters, sir, if you can give your name and address as Havelock Vetinari, Patrician, The Palace, Upper Broadway." he said. "Or even Sir Samuel Vimes, Watch Commander, Ramkin Manor, Scoone Avenue."

Vimes grunted.

Sybil had insisted he fill the _**Who's Whom**_ form in fully and accurately, with no silly jokes. He was in there too, under "V".

"I'd love to know where he got the nickname "Harry", though." **(2)** he said, changing the subject.

"It ties into the strange reference to _Caltech, Pasadena_ , sir." Carrot informed his boss. "Roundworld affairs. Remember that commendation letter you got for Johanna?"

Vimes grunted again.

"Where are we up to with the Great Train Robbers, Carrot? The _**Times**_ is still griping that we're nowhere near solving that one. And more to the point, the reason for their being here."

"I've got people out checking the new leads, sir, from yesterday. Searching for the missing Thief, Mr Gibbet, in the Shades. Victor's checking out All Jolson's food store. Then I'm thinking we can send him to talk to Mrs Vinhuis at the Embassy. Ambassador van der Graaf has promised us every assistance, and seeing Victor might be less traumatising than her having to see Lieutenant Verkramp in his official capacity."

Vimes grimaced. "If she's fit. I've heard things about BOSS."

"She's _white,_ sir. Had she been a black Embassy employee I doubt she'd be fit for a second interrogation. BOSS tend not to get physical with white people. At least, not on a first interrogation. And Mr van der Graaf doesn't like Verkramp getting physical with _anybody_. "

Vimes nodded.

"Get people out on foot in the Shades, too. See if they can scare anything up."

* * *

Julian Smith-Rhodes had returned early to the Embassy, fending off the knowing grins of the gate guard. He was thankful they didn't know _everything_ about the previous night, and intended to keep it that way. He allowed them the privilege of a joke at his expense, tacitly admitted a lady had been involved, yes, and cordially reminded them that later this morning they'd be parading for the colonel's inspection, so there had better _not_ be any flaws in uniform, weapons-management or personal presentation. He smiled faintly as their grins faded, then took their salute and walked on.

As junior defence attaché, one of Julian's jobs was everyday supervision of the thirty or so enlisted men who made up the Embassy's security detachment. With the Ambassador's explicit approval, Colonel Breytenbach held a weekly spit-and-polish parade to remind them they were not in a completely soft posting a long way away from any potential fighting. It was Julian's job to parade them in an acceptable state, but one he was perfectly happy to delegate to a senior sergeant (Army) and most lately to Chief Petty Officer Saarsen (Navy). With Ankh-Morpork resurgent and building a new fighting Navy with the most modern ships, it had been thought cost-effective to enlarge the military contingent with a Naval Attaché and a small detachment of men. When not observing as guests of the local Navy, the sailors based at the Embassy also did a turn at gate-guard and routine security patrols.

Commander "Sailor" Malan, the Naval Attaché, was also happy to delegate routine military administration to the dogsbody Junior Military Attaché. Knowing he was bottom of the commissioned officer rank structure, Julian got on with it, largely by delegating to CPO Saarsen, a terrifying naval NCO with thirty years' service who viewed the Army contingent as a bunch of maggot Marines. His Army NCO, Sergeant de Kock, was another veteran, an easygoing military policeman with a passion for dog-handling, who'd managed to wangle getting his wife and kids over to Ankh-Morpork and who had been allowed married quarters outside the Embassy, in the form of a rented house in Dimwell. Saarsen, a bachelor who lived in, consequently ran the enlisted mens' barrack-rooms, and Julian found he had to do not much more than was expected of the Captain. It was an arrangement that suited all sides. He told them when he'd be inspecting; they made sure the barracks-bunker was acceptably presentable. He dealt with requests and defaulters. He escorted them to the Butts in small parties for sanctioned weapons-drills. **(3)** In the manner of junior officers, he learnt names, nicknames, the jokes and routines that were the small currency of military life.

Getting through the Thursday morning parade meant an easier run of it for a few days. Everybody was motivated, if only by the threat of punishment fatigues or loss of privileges. A half-day of intensive bullshit bought the quiet life of a soft posting in a big city.

Julian, reassured, then took a second breakfast at the Ambassador's table with senior staff. This was nothing more than a courtesy slice of toast and a cup of redbush tea; he'd had his main breakfast, a more substantial one, at Johanna's.

"All points covered, Julian?" Mr van der Graaf greeted him affably.

"Yes, sir."

The Ambassador was, he knew, referring to his nocturnal conversation with Ruth N'Kweze. Mr van der Graaf had briefed him on useful things to say and useful areas in which to probe for a response. As well as to take careful note of what Ruth had thought important to tell him. Pieter van der Graaf was a cosmopolitan man. He knew all about the honey trap, where a diplomat far from home could be ensnared by a woman. As the ensnarement in this case appeared mutual, and he'd met Ruth N'Kweze and found her to be a perfectly charming decent young woman, albeit one of _them_ , he saw no reason why both parties shouldn't come out of it smeared with honey. It was a useful, if unorthodox, arrangement.

"I'll take your report later, privately." He said. "Now tell me about last night. We heard du Plessis surfaced on Spa Lane."

Julian related the story of his evening at Johanna's and his interactions with the City Watch. He carefully refrained from asking, publicly, who was responsible for the security breach. Although he noted, with a growing suspicion, that Katerina Vinhuis was looking uncomfortably red. Educated to be a gentleman, he did not press for further details. He knew he'd find out before the day was over.

"I hope Johanna is _safe_." said Lady Friejda. "She should be under an armed guard. These people will stop at nothing!"

"I imagine both the Watch and the Guild are attending to that detail." Pieter said, smoothly. "And even in her current state, she is not defenceless on her own account. More formidable, I would think, as she also has her child to fight for."

Colonel Breytenbach, the senior Military Attaché, turned restlessly in his seat.

"And Spa Lane is relatively close to here." he said. Breytenbach was a big man, running a little to fat, but strong muscles still rippled under his uniform shirt. He regarded Julian for a moment, his bull neck turning.

"Sir, you too are a target. As is Captain Smith-Rhodes here. You were both in that final battle."

A look of something like envy crossed Breytenbach's face.

"Which is why the guards have been shown the iconographs and urged to maximum vigilance in observing the street and other avenues of approach." Van der Graaf said, smoothly. "They are to report sightings instantly. And outside these gates, the Watch appear to have doubled patrols. I suspect the Guild of Assassins to have operatives nearby. They want these people too."

Julian cleared his throat.

"From what Captain von Überwald said earlier, sir, there is a possibility du Plessis may have murdered a licenced Thief last night. The Guild of Thieves will now also be chasing the killers. And they are many thousands strong."

"So it is possible that with so many agencies chasing them and so many eyes now open and watching, that this situation will be resolved satisfactorily." The Ambassador said, genially. "They cannot hide forever."

"But even so, sir." Breytenbach objected. "Four desperate and ruthless men. Already under a near-certain death sentence with nothing to lose. It is very possible they will seek to cause as much suffering and destruction as possible before dying, as they see it, as free unbeaten men. And their leader was humiliated _by a woman_. A mere girl, as he would have seen it. Forced to back down and lose face. Sir, you do not need to be told that to men – _some_ men – in our society, that is a disgrace? To some of our men, who are brought up to believe a woman defers, is quiet, knows her place, does not argue with men, does not seek to act like a man?"

Pieter van der Graaf considered the gender politics of a lot of Rimwards Howondalandian society and reflected that in some respects, Johanna would not fit in _at all_.

As Julian Smith-Rhodes quietly reflected that his mother – and his cousin - must have missed school that day, the Ambassador said

"I agree some unreformed minds would take that as a mortal insult, _ja._ And there are many so among our men. I accept your point, Wim, and I accept that though irrational, it is a very strong argument. Even so, normal life must continue. I _will_ be seen taking the inspection later this morning. No, Wim. That is an _order_. Thank you. Julian, attend on me in my office."

* * *

The daily cab turned up at Spa Lane. The Guild had ordered it as a security precaution. From the outside it looked like a larger city taxi-cab, drawn by a team of four horses; but closer inspection might have revealed that the horses were bigger and more thoroughbred than the usual semi-jades, with more go in them. The driver and mate were dressed in respectable black, but it was a far more _stylish_ black than the usual cabbie gear. Both they and the third crewman on the rear roof – himself not a usual part of cabbie crews – had an air of purpose about them.

Ponder assisted Johanna over the step. He stood back, reflected, and offered Davinia Bellamy his arm. She got in too. Then the three junior students, Martin, Tim and Peggy. Finally Ponder squeezed into a spare seat. Six people were a tight fit, but Ponder would be first out at the university. Normally only Ponder and Johanna would have travelled in the courtesy cab, but after the three students had become targets by default, they'd been offered a free ride to school. And in all conscience, Johanna wasn't going to leave her friend and neighbour stranded having to make her own way in. It might have been seven people; but Ruth N'Kweze had opted to discreetly leave for the Guild on her own some time before, knowing it was best if she wasn't publicly linked to Julian. He had meticulously waited for a non-incriminating period of time to pass before leaving himself, to travel in the opposite direction towards the Embassy.

The cab's crew were all Assassins, Johanna knew, and the coach itself had built-in surprises to catch any attacker unawares. She smiled, and rested her feet on the large bag full of student exercise books, marked and ready for their owners, that was travelling with her. This beat walking to work…

* * *

"Okay." Sam Vimes said, looking down over the wall onto the discarded body of Titch Gibbett. Fred Colon tried not to look too happy. The poor sod was dead, after all, even if he, Fred, could claim the credit for finding what was looking to be an important corpse. But one minute he, Fred, had been mumphing for some _really fresh_ ox liver that Mrs Colon could cook with onions tonight. And then one of Gerhardt Sock's apprentices had run up sayin' there was a body in among all the carcasses and offal.

Gerhardt had pulled a face and said "Yes, lad. Carcasses _is_ bodies. We trades in 'em. And your point is?"

"Yes, Mr Sock. But this one's _human_!"

Fred had been called to look. Then called the Watch.

"So its's Titch Gibbet." Vimes said. "Poor little sod."

Cheery Littlebottom looked up from her necessary work.

"Dead about ten hours, sir." she reported. "ID checks out as Richard "Titch" Gibbet of the Guild of Thieves."

"Ok. Can we, er, pack him up for the mortuary? Thieves' Guild Mortuary, in the circumstances." he added, hurriedly, regarding the silent watchers, one of whom was shaking with tears. He sighed. He'd never been good in these circumstances. He knew enough to know that among the Thieves, some names were assigned only to orphans and foundlings, otherwise unwanted children brought up by the Guild from the cradle. "Gibbet" was one. The Gibbets and the Ludds and others formed close families around their given trade names.

Stephanie Gibbet, who Vimes normally knew as a cheerful street-hardened young woman with an inconvenient conscience, was taking it badly. She was something of a big sister to younger Gibbets, and finding one of her family dead and dumped with the butcher's waste was hurting her badly. Sometimes he wished Sybil were here. She'd _know_ what to do with a young woman in floods of tears over a body.

He beckoned forward the other Thieves. Most were Gibbets. They had a stretcher and a blanket.

"Find her, you know, something to _do_ , could you?" he said, indicating Steffi. The lead Gibbet nodded.

Vimes turned to Colon.

"Right, Fred." he said, in a low voice. "Now we just need to work out _where_ he was stabbed."

"Oh, that's _easy_ , Mr Vimes!" Fred replied, cheerfully. "Right up through the heart from underneath, Cheery said…"

Vimes adjusted his mental radar to Talking-To-Fred.

"No, Fred. Cheery says there's not much human blood here. Which means the body's been moved from where the killing took place. Angua reported a large blood-smell just Hubwards of the Shambles. Which means the killer, after he realised he was being followed home, took time and effort to move the body here and hide it in the stockyard bins. So this is not likely to be on his walk directly home. _We_ need to go to the location Angua reported. Pewter Street. To see where other trails might go from there. Not much, but it eliminates the Shambles from our enquiries."

Fred nodded. He looked down the street.

"Isn't that Miss Band, sir, from the Assassins? Heading this way?"

Vimes winced.

"Oh, hell! Friend of Miss Gibbet's. That's _all_ we need! Thieves aren't allowed to kill, Fred. Assassins _are_. This one well might, if it's upset her best friend's day."

"Oh." Fred said, realising. " _That_ sort of best friends?"

In the foreground, two women hugged. The taller one had "concerned lover and best friend" radiating from her. As well as "What can I do to put it right?"

"Of long standing. Let's get out of here?"

* * *

"Take Edouard Lutjens with you when you go to the Royal Bank." the Ambassador recommended. "He's my Trade Secretary, after all, and he knows about gold and diamonds. I'm sure he'll get the point when Professor Turvy makes his presentation. It gives me an answer for Vetinari, when in the middle of an entirely different conversation, he abruptly asks about the diamond market."

Julian nodded assent. The Ambassador smiled, knowing things in his world were a little bit better.

"A muster of the Impis on the Ulunghi. Hmm. That's an army of forty thousand spears all in the same place. And we have the urgent word of the Paramount Crown Princess, based on briefings from her father, that they are only there for full-scale military manoeuvres, to be conducted strictly on their side of the River."

"Which still sounds like a provocation." Julian chanced. "So near the Border. A show of force, perhaps, sir? The Paramount King would not lie outright to his own daughter, and he isn't reckless. Besides, he needs reliable and honest channels of communication as much as we do. My assumption is that this is to clearly demonstrate how many spears he _could_ send at us if he was so inclined. We do that too. In the other direction."

Van der Graaf nodded.

"I concur. I will inform Vetinari, not that he doesn't already _know_ , damn him. And respectfully ask as to which officers and diplomats will be Observing on behalf of Ankh-Morpork. If there aren't too many idiots among them and he despatches capable men, I'll breathe easier. And you know, this is a good chance to practically test the reliability of the Princess, as to how much she is told and how reliable the people briefing _her_ are. If the events and the numbers tally, then her sources can be rated as reliable."

The Ambassador breathed out.

"She's a refreshingly straightforward young woman in her way, Julian." he remarked. "But slippery. You do know she infiltrated this Embassy on a Guild assignment when she was barely fifteen? She got in by posing as a black servant. Played the part to perfection. Poisoned a remarkably repulsive and arrogant young idiot and three of his cronies, although not fatally."

Julian raised an eyebrow.

"As Klatchian cascara was the agent of choice, it was more of an embarrassing and undignified method of poisoning." Van der Graaf continued. "Officially, we put it down to a bout of jungle sickness a newcomer brought with him off the boat. Unofficially, I am forced to say I remain grateful to her, for demonstrating a hole in our security so wide you could have driven a coach through it. Johanna was supervising her, needless to say. I understand she had her own disagreement with the oaf who was poisoned. I permitted this to pass, as officially they were investigating a different matter." **(4)**

"Nobody seriously thinks the blacks could organise themselves to do something like this…" mused Julian. "Everybody knows how slow and thick and superstitious they are. Incapable of sophisticated thinking."

The Ambassador nodded, gravely.

" _Exactly,_ Julian. When we think of ourselves as superior beings, we tend to fatally underestimate those we consider inferior. Which could lead to disaster. Not that apartheid is _wrong,_ naturally."

"As a social system, it works, sir." Julian agreed. "Up to a point."

"Up to a point." the Ambassador agreed, keeping his expression unmeasurable. "Well, you have an hour or so to get into uniform."

Julian recognised this as a dismissal. He stood up.

"Carry on working with your informal channel of communication. I believe you find this to be a pleasure as well as a duty. Inform me when you intend to see her next, and I might well have some more _bon mots_ to slip into the conversation."

* * *

Detective-Sergeant Victor Tugelbend walked into All Jolson's Howondalandian Food Emporium, his nose assailed by a thousand strong smells, a lot of which were actually quite pleasant, albeit strange. A thaumatalogically chilled glass-fronted cabinet offered lots of strange-looking meats alongside familiar cuts. He noted prominent signs saying things like _**"Strictly! No bushmeat sold here! Librarian-certified!**_ in Morporkian and several other languages. Another prominent sign said, with no Morporkian version,

 _Apartheid is hier nie welkom! Dit is vrei Howondalaand. Ons behandel almal ewe goed, swart of wit. Almal verdien goeie kos, bedien met vergunning!_ **(5)**

It was translated into several native languages underneath.

Victor recognised the word "apartheid" and speculated on how White Howondalandians of a certain sort might behave to people in a Black Howondalandian-staffed food store. It had certainly merited a warning sign about… _behandel._ He remembered time spent in Sto Kerrig. _Behaviour_? He stood back as other people, mainly black, were served. He recognised Dorothea, Johanna's cook, and exchanged a pleasantry with her, complimenting her on the previous night's dinner. Dorothea, a big middle-aged woman with wide hips, dressed colourfully in native style, grinned and showed excellent white teeth, a rarity in this city.

"Ah, that was white man's food, Mr Victor! I got here _proper_ chow, for myself and the others! Although the baas-lady likes to eat properly. She getting _sosetjes_ for tonight!"

Victor gathered she was making sure the servant table was well-stocked on the Smith-Rhodes food account. One of those happy arrangements the baas-lady would graciously overlook when doing the domestic accounts.

"I tell her, Mr Victor, I can tell her if the baby be boy or girl. She don't want to know! She says she wants surprise on the day!"

Victor commiserated with Dorothea on the eccentricities of white employers. He was used to women who wanted to hold him in conversation. Ever since Moving Pictures days. Some women _remembered_ Victor Maraschino. He found it to be a useful policing tool. He noted one other white face in the queue to be served and weighed it up against the four faces imprinted on his mind. It didn't match.

"Hi, Victor!" a voice called. "Be with you in a moment!"

He recognised his Watch colleague Sergeant Precious Jolson. In a white overall, wrapping some meat for a customer.

He excused himself and Dorothea wished him a good morning, leaving the store.

"That's four dollars and twenty-three pence, Mr van Nicklensberg." she said amiably. The customer, equally friendly, thanked her and left with full bags. Victor wondered if this was another way in which apartheid barriers were being chipped away. Everybody needed to eat, after all.

Then he got to the counter.

"I can see you're busy." he apologised. "But Watch business?"

"You never leave it." Precious said. "Even on a day off. Dad asked if I could keep shop for a couple of hours as he's short-handed, what with here and the restaurant. What's up?"

"Who was running the store yesterday?" Victor inquired. He said a wanted man had been in and quickly explained the situation.

"Ah, Dad was here. He'd have served. But Essie was working in back. _He_ might have seen. Essie?"

A huge well-muscled black man in a white kitchen overall emerged. Victor knew he had An Arrangement with Precious; he'd been present at the Tobacco Farm business, a Matabele soldier who'd been taken prisoner early on and who had asked for asylum in Ankh-Morpork. Taken on by the Jolsons, his new career as cook, grocer and food salesman was taking off, as well as a leisured relationship with Precious that was looking like a marriage was about to happen sometime. She'd apparently punched him in the eye and knocked him cold. Victor reflected that Matabele men _value_ that sort of thing in a woman.

He grinned a big genial happy grin. Victor asked about events of the previous day. Essie confirmed, in basic but good Morporkian, that {{ _Miss Head-Flies-High-As-The-Howondalandian-Swallow_ }}, you know, the dozy one from the White Howondalandian Embassy, take her two tries to distinguish her bottom from her elbow, had been in ordering for the Embassy. This other white man had spoken to her in that primitive tribal white-man language of theirs, neither of them had stopped to reflect that big-dumb-nigger here might know some of it, you know the way these people think?

Victor produced iconograph copies. Essie scrutinised them carefully. Then he said, pointing to Ouistrehaam, "All you people look alike to me. But if you force me to guess, it was this man here. Bought a bunny-chow from the fast food counter, and some _boerewois_ to go. Popular line, _boerewois_. Fancy some?"

* * *

Julian Smith-Rhodes quickly changed into his parade uniform and checked himself thoroughly in the long mirror. Satisfied, he left the main Embassy building and made his way round to the partially-underground military barrack, known as The Bunker, which had been built in the grounds. Skirting around the dog kennels, always a place of noise and activity, he came to the Armoury, a reinforced building barely larger than a shed that housed bows, crossbows and ammunition. He was one of a strictly limited number of people to hold keys to the troll-proof reinforced steel door.

He stood here for a moment or two and pondered the day.

It was no secret that Ambassador van der Graaf liked to take inspection of the men at the Thursday parade. It happened on the front drive of the Embassy, in full view of the main road, at eleven. Regularly. And the only two men with loaded crossbows would be the delegated gate guard. He frowned. Then heard somebody approaching and turned to meet them.

"Mrs Vinhuis." he said, pleasantly. Katerina turned to him. She did not look happy. This was rare for her. She usually managed to maintain a smiling face and a cheerful disposition.

"Captain Smith-Rhodes." she replied. Her voice sounded abstracted and distant.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked. "May I assist?"

She picked up and smiled slightly.

"I came for a walk on my own. You know, in the grounds. After enduring the society of the pleasant Liutnant Verkramp."

"Anyone would wish for clean air after making a statement to BOSS." Julian sympathised. "Current events are troubling you, madam?"

Katerina sniffled back a tear.

"I feel I have let everyone down." she said. "I said too much. I embarrassed my husband in front of the Ambassador. I placed a friend in danger. I placed _her_ husband and unborn child in danger. I don't know how I can ever face Johanna again."

Julian took her hand.

"If I know my cousin, she'll be furious for about a minute." he assured her. "But I understand your friendship goes back for twenty years? To last so long it must be strong. If you can withstand that minute of what my cousin would call _slight irritation_ , madam, you will be friends again and she will forgive. I assure you."

"Do you really think so?" Katerina asked. She perked up hopefully.

"Assuredly. And in any case her home address is no secret, and has been publicised by other agencies. They would have found it eventually. Trust me on this."

She looked happier and more hopeful.

"I just wish there was something I could do. To make me feel like less of a _spectator_." she said.

"Just be yourself." Julian assured her. Like practically every other man in the building, he quite liked the delightfully cheerful blonde airhead and appreciated having her around. She was, to him, a younger edition of the pleasant and stately Lady Friejda. Katerina was good for morale. If the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ needed to have a press release delivered and an Embassy staff member iconographed delivering it, as often as not Katerina was the human face of Rimwards Howondaland. People liked to see attractive women in their morning paper, and Mr van der Graaf was wily enough to exploit this. Katerina had been painstakingly taught to say _only_ the words in the press release, and to add "no comment", or "Speak to Ambassador van der Graaf for clarification", if pushed for more detail.

"And I know Martin would be concerned to see you in distress." Julian added. "Trust your husband, Katerina. He's a good man."

Katerina hugged him quickly, then stood back. An Embassy was a closed community where everybody watched everyone else, often without wanting to. Neither wanted gossip.

"Thank you, Julian. Your lady friend must really value you. It's a shame you need to be discreet, but I think I understand why you cannot go public."

Julian kept his face diplomatically straight. _How much did she know?_

"I understand that from talking to Martin and to Lady Friejda. I understand perhaps that she is married to another, who she does not love, or else there is some noble reason why you must be discreet."

Katerina, Julian reflected, constructed a lot of her world-view from romantic novels of the pink-tinged Iriadne Comb-Buttworthy sort. She claimed she read them to improve her grasp of the Morporkian language and its written idiom. People nodded soberly and accepted this. She shared the books with Lady Friejda, Embassy rumour had it, an older woman whose mind moved along similar lines.

He heard her giggle, the everyday Katerina restoring itself.

"Why, in a romantic fantasy, I speculate that your lady is a Princess of her people and has to conceal that she is in love with a commoner!"

Julian grinned.

"She is a Princess to me, my lady, certainly!"

Katerina laughed and walked on in her silent round of the Embassy gardens. Julian reflected how easy it was to completely mislead somebody and leave them no wiser, just by telling the truth. He added this to a growing list of lessons learnt concerning functioning as a diplomat, and remembered he only had twenty minutes before calling out the Guard and marching them to the front drive. He reviewed his thoughts about the weekly inspection. Something obvious was there. Involving the Ambassador. But whatever it was, he hadn't worked it out yet. It was possible with Mr van der Graaf that you'd _never_ work it out. That when you'd deduced his surface intentions, you then looked down at a lot of deeper layers of intent and meaning. All within the same action.

More feet on the gravel. Julian looked round.

Martin Vinhuis. _Hell, I really hope he wasn't here to watch his wife hugging me._

"Glad I found you here, Julian. Got time for a talk?"

His voice sounded professional-friendly. Martin was in his late thirties and every inch a high-flying career diplomat.

"We've got perhaps a quarter-hour, Martin. Just been talking to Mrs Vinhuis, incidentally. She was a bit shaken up after Verkramp."

Martin scowled slightly for a fraction of a second. He was no friend of Verkramp's either.

"She went over towards the rose garden." Julian added, helpfully.

"I'll catch up with her." Martin decided. "Julian. Have you given any thought to the Ambassador being so adamant that he's going to take the inspection today, come what may?"

"Still puzzling it over. Being brave is one thing, and nobody can deny Mr van der Graaf hasn't got that in spadeloads. But _sticking your neck out foolhardy_ is different."

Julian suddenly noted Martin nodding encouragingly at him.

"Anyone passing by the front of the building, on Scoone Avenue, could aim through the railings and get a shot in if they see the Ambassador walking on the drive or the lawn…." Julian pulled up short. Martin pressed on.

"And correct me if I'm wrong. Your inspection today involves parading practically everyone who wears a uniform to work. And drilling with crossbows. Then as the officer taking the inspection moves down the rank, you do the _For Inspection, Port Arms_ manoeuvre. And this is not done with loaded weapons, _ever_?"

"Well, of course." Julian said. "Imagine Private Aaslendt performing that drill evolution with a _loaded_ crossbow? You cock the bow, you work the action, you pull the trigger. To demonstrate the weapon is in working order, without putting a bolt through somebody's face…"

He paused.

"And for nearly an hour, nearly thirty men are unarmed. The only weapons capable of being used for fight are the dress swords on the belts of three officers. And Verkramp's bloody whip. And we have no more than two loaded crossbows at the gate. Which are there for show, as Sam Vimes has made it very clear what happens if our men fire them on _his_ street in _Ankh-Morpork_ without reasonable cause."

Julian found himself going pale. Martin Vinhuis pushed the point.

"You've got a key to the Armoury? I don't. I suggest a couple of boxes of ready-use crossbow bolts near to where the parade is. Emergency use."

The two men quickly wrestled with the armoury door and pulled out crates of ammo. They were heavy.

"We need some sort of wagon." Julian said. "Ah!"

A gardener's wheelbarrow was nearby. They loaded it.

"We can leave the barrow just down the drive from the parade." Martin said. "Inconspicuous. You expect to see wheelbarrows in a garden. Throw a cover over it."

"Do you really think…" Julian asked. Martin shrugged.

"It's a possibility. I'll bet today's parade passes by without a hitch. But we're offering them a _target,_ Julian. Hellfire, why do you think the Ambassador's staking himself out as bait? He's on their hitlist. I'm willing to bet he's putting his neck out to save his niece. Hoping we can catch them _here_."

Julian paused and deliberated before turning out the Embassy guard for their parade. He weighed the key in his hand. Then he pushed the Armoury door shut and looped the clasp of the padlock through its locating bracket, without closing it. It would just _look_ closed to the casual eye. This broke every standing order he could think of. Unsecured weapons, negligient storage, tempting the blacks to arm themselves and Rise up And Slaughter Us With Our Own Weapons… but if there might be a fight, he was damn sure he'd prefer the Armoury door to be unlocked so as to get to the weapons more quickly. And by inference, Martin Vinhuis, a superior officer, had sanctioned this. Two boxes each of two hundred crossbow bolts were currently negligently stored in a wheelbarrow out in the open. At Martin's instructions.

And then CPO Saarsen was turning out the Guard…

* * *

"Anything new, A.E.?" Sam Vimes asked, returning to the Yard.

The Watch adjutant looked up from the desk.

"Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild would like to speak to you…"

"I meant police work, A.E. Boggis can bloody well wait. Incident reports?"

"Two possible murders, one of which might be classable as a suicide. Just in within the last ten minutes: A report of a coach hijacking out near to the Deosil Gate. Driver and mate clubbed, and the passengers beaten, robbed, and thrown out to the roadside. The coach was seen driving off in the direction of Phedre Road. Witness reports say four armed men, heavily cloaked."

Vimes grunted. Coachjacking was becoming a problem in the City. Sometimes joyriders. The Watch had to clear burnt-out wrecks and recapture loose horses left to run wild. Sometimes criminals needing a stolen coach for a job….

Vimes felt a policeman's sense go " _ping!_ " inside his head. He turned his head slowly and said, deliberately

"Four men?"

 _Scoone Avenue was just off Kingsway._

He considered options. It wasn't wildly likely the Howondalandians were after Sybil or young Sam. Their hitlist was more specialised than that. But the Howondalandian Embassy was on Scoone Avenue… and the street offered a fast route to Nap Hill. _Spa Lane._ He leapt up. Boggis could bloody well wait.

He reminded himself that the detail about "four men" might just be coincidence. But he couldn't afford to think like that.

"A.E. Top priority. Clacks the Howondalandian Embassy. Alert. Attack may be imminent. For van der Graaf himself. Got that?"

The Smith-Rhodes boy was there too. He was also a target. _No, not a boy. He's fought a battle. Won a medal. Got promoted. Not your typical military Rupert. Capable. Intelligent. Then again he's related to Johanna._

"And to the Assassins. In case they're taking a swipe at Spa Lane."

Vimes ran down the stairs yelling for officers and transport.

* * *

" _ **Afdeling! Afdeling - AANDAG**_!"

The group of officers, and the Ambassador, came to attention alongside the enlisted men, as Chief Petty Officer Saarsen barked the command.

Julian watched as, with military ceremony, the orange, white and blue national flag began its ascent of the pole, with a cornet playing the Reveille. All around the Embassy, work came to a halt as the ceremony progressed. Black staff stood respectfully, possibly welcoming the break from everyday labour. Embassy staff had gathered on the front steps to watch. Even people in the Brindisian Embassy grounds next door were watching.

The salute was taken as the flag filled out in the breeze. For a few moments, Liutnant Verkramp of BOSS, in his uniform, was an accepted part of the team alongside Julian, Commander Malan and Colonel Breytenbach. Julian stole a glance at the weaselly little secret policeman. _There's a lump in his throat. Is that a tear in his eye? Well, you can't fault his patriotism. Except in his case you can fault the way he interprets it and what he believes it means._

And then the breeze blew Julian's cap off. He winced. CPO Saarsen would have something suitably acerbic to say about a junior officer who couldn't keep his hat on during a parade. He wondered why none of the men had sniggered.

And then people were looking around them and running. The parade began to dissolve in confusion. There was a shout to take cover. Some of the enlisted men just stood there looking confused. Julian saw men fall. Breytenbach was leaping in front of the ambassador, as if putting his body between him and danger… something whipped through the air past Julian-Smith-Rhodes. He saw Breytenbach convulse in pain but not fall.

Then he realised.

"Parade! Fall out!" he ordered to the men who were still standing there, immobilised by drill protocol and unsure what to do. Did they run from the attack, or risk the wrath of Saarsen for breaking ranks? What was scarier, crossbow bolts in the air, or a Drill CPO? Julian gave them the implicit order. Gratefully they broke and scattered.

"Under attack! Go for cover!"

To his horror, he saw the Ambassador twitch and fall. Breytenbach took another crossbow bolt possibly meant for his boss. Then he too fell, or dropped, shielding van der Graaf with his body.

Verkramp had run for it. Malan was down and unmoving. _Which only leaves me… standing up._

He noted scattered men going to ground, crawling for cover, everywhere, realising he was the only visible officer left standing. He took in no more than two abandoned crossbows. Most men were still carrying theirs despite having no ammo. At least the military design incorporated a bayonet. Julian hit the turf rolling, looking for a wheelbarrow he really, really, needed to get to. Which against all probability wasn't there. He controlled his shock. The ready-use ammo had vanished. The Armoury was a long way away at the back of the building complex. His men were under fire and unarmed. Hugging the grass, he thought furiously for a moment. Hadn't he heard Saarsen in the distance yelling at a black gardener for making his parade area look untidy? _He had the bloody barrow moved_ , Julian realised. _It offended his sense of neatness_. Julian Smith-Rhodes hugged the grass, nearly out of options. Looking cautiously up, he saw a large coach parked outside the railings in Scoone Avenue. Men were on top of it, able to fire over the railings and down into the scattered men on the grass.

He weighed up the distance to the gates. He wondered if the two men posted there were still alive. Evidently not; the men outside were untroubled by return fire. _A hundred yards. Under fire. Maybe a rush could do it. They can't get us all._

He shouted "Fix bayonets! Be ready for my order…" with no great hope of surviving this one. But it had to be done…

And then the men on top of the coach were firing over their heads at some threat behind the helpless men pinned down on the lawn. Abstractly he noted, with a sense of warm pride, men who'd run nearest the fence and gates were trying to wriggle forward under fire. Sergeant de Kock appeared to be leading them. But why had the fire lifted… he looked back, cautiously, and saw an amazing sight.

Katerina Vinhuis. Assisted by a black gardener. Pushing a wheelbarrow forward as fast as they could manage. A crossbow bolt spanged off the metal of the barrow. Katerina appeared to have found the sense to crouch lower as she pushed. Her face radiated intent. Another bolt narrowly missed her right shoulder. The black gardener stooped and picked up an abandoned crossbow. But then they were nearly there...

Julian leapt forward and covered her with his body. He helped drag out an ammo case and threw it onto the grass, where it burst open. A soldier, getting the idea, began lobbing tied bundles of bolts to other men. Another crossbow bolt zipped past and hit the ground a few yards behind and to the left of Katerina. He breathed out and pulled her down behind the shelter of the barrow.

"That was most unwise, madam." he said. "But I thank you."

Katerina stared into his eyes. There was an un-Katerinic steely determination there.

"I told you." she said. "I wanted to _help_. To be more than a spectator."

The black gardener studied the crossbow with interest. Julian was about to say, kindly, "Put it _down_. You don't know how to use it, and anyway that could get you into trouble…"

Then he loaded and shot. His bolt hit the upper side of the coach being used as a firing platform, making it rock. It seemed to cause consternation among the men on its roof, who had been shooting fish in a barrel up until then.

"Or maybe not." Julian murmured. "Carry on. You seem to know what you're doing."

And then more men were shooting back. As some fired, others advanced under cover to closer firing positions. Julian nodded. The defence was organising itself, then. He heard de Kock calling orders in his steady, unflappable, voice.

And then as Julian and a handful of men rushed the gate and into the street, the coach was moving off, at speed. Next to him, a soldier… in a torn and dirty green dress? stamped her foot in frustration, lifted and aimed a crossbow, and put a very neat shot through the back window of the coach. As it receded, followed by aimed fire, Julian turned to Katerina.

"Fine shooting, mrs Vinhuis. But really, this is no place for a woman."

He remembered to call for cease fire. They were out in the street now. The target was getting out of effective range. Scoone Avenue was largely residential. And an overshot arrow could end up anywhere, as Sam Vimes would be keen to point out. Although he, Julian, felt sure he could point to reasonable cause and necessary self-defence.

"No place for a _woman_?" Katerina said, indignantly. "Captain Smith-Rhodes. I might have been brought up in a city. I might not be veldt-tough. But I'm still a Boor. The Veldt and the Boortrek were probably no place for women. And whatever else is expected of us, Boor women _fight_! In defence of our homes and the things and the people we love!"

She nodded emphatically. The wreckage of her dress collar, one of Boggi's finest, flopped away. Her skirt was torn to the thigh **(6)** and dirt smeared down her face. Her no longer immaculate hair was askew and the net torn beyond repair. But she was flushed with excitement.

"I stand corrected, madam." Julian said, meekly. She softened.

"You know, Julian, I understand Johanna a lot better now." she said. "Just this once, I believe I'm looking at her world through her eyes."

Julian nodded. He had an uneasy feeling the chrysalis had just burst and a new Lady Friejda had emerged, flexing her wings in the sun. Martin Vinhuis had got a good wife indeed.

"And it's _good_!" Katerina exulted. She cradled the crossbow.

He would have said more, but by the sound of it, Sam Vimes and the Watch had arrived.

* * *

The aftermath took longer to sort out.

Vimes and the Watch arrived at a scene of disarray. He registered a line of blanket-covered bodies on the lawn. Ambulances had been called from the Lady Sybil; his own Watch Igor, driven by some clan sense of foreboding, had tagged onto the Watch contingent and was treating injuries where he found them. He had ascertained that Breytenbach was hurt, but because of the sheer thickness of his muscle, nothing vital had been penetrated too deeply and three crossbow bolts, meant for either Julian or the ambassador, could be removed pretty much safely. Igor had stemmed bleeding, tidied up some lung damage, and packed the colonel off to the hospital.

The worst damage to the ambassador was the crossbow bolt that had scraped his thigh in passing, glancing off the hip-bone. As much bruising and a couple of broken ribs had been caused when Colonel Breytenbach had fallen on him, quite deliberately, to absorb any further shots.

"Ah, Wim meant well, I suppose." Van der Graaf said, resignedly. He squeezed the hand of a tearful Lady Friejda, then passed over temporary ambassadorship to the Chargé d'Affaires, effectively his deputy. Igor had prescribed a few days at the Lady Sybil for him. "Where's Captain Smith-Rhodes?"

"I believe he's with Martin Vinhuis." The Chargé D'Affaires replied. Securing your office, before BOSS do."

The ambassador nodded, serenely. It would be just like Verkramp to poke around in his private papers if the Ambassador was ill, and the line of succession not completely clarified. BOSS could claim they were taking over temporarily, to ensure orderly management of the Embassy until a new Ambassador could be posted. There were things he definitely did not want BOSS to add to his file. Good of Martin to pre-empt this. He'd make a promotion recommendation as soon as he was able.

"Julian was lucky." The Chargé D reflected. "Then again, Smith-Rhodeses tend to be. Two inches lower, and he'd have been dead!"

He held up the retrieved officer's cap that had been blown off Julian's head. It had a crossbow bolt through it.

"So Julian was their preferred target." Van der Graaf mused. "Lucky for him they aimed just too high."

"Funny things, snipers." The Chargé D reflected. "He had Julian's whole body to aim at, and he went for the head-shot. Probably thought that would be more _emphatic_."

He looked at the ruined officer's cap again.

"I'd be bloody furious. Those things aren't cheap. Probably thirty dollars at Boult and Locke's. A big bite of a Captain's salary."

"Authorise a replacement on expenses." The Ambassador said, firmly. He winced at a stab of pain. "Julian deserves it. If it wasn't for him getting that ammunition within easy reach and leaving the Armoury unlocked, there'd have been more casualties."

He switched to Morporkian. "Sir Samuel, whet's the current toll?"

Vimes had arrived to pay his respects and report. He saluted the Ambassador. It wasn't just a professional formality: they were neighbours and had a mutual respect.

"Commander Malan and six men dead." He read the names out, stumbling over the unfamiliar Vondalaans pronunciations. "Eight wounded to varying degrees, including yourself and Colonel Breytenbach."

Van der Graaf thanked Vimes, gravely. Then he asked

"Em I getting too old for this, Richard?" to his Chargé D'Affaires. "We could heve evoided this if I'd been less stubborn."

"No, sir." His deputy replied. "They'd have come at us _whatever_ we did. Crazy men with nothing to live for and a grudge." And as he was a career diplomat, he added: "Popular sentiment and goodwill will be on our side, sir. That woman from the _**Times**_ and the vampire iconographer are outside. With your permission, I would allow them access to everything and everybody. We are clearly the innocent party in this, and it should be widely seen we have been the victims of an outrage."

"I agree. But you're in charge for a few days now, Richard. Your call. Ellow Commander Vimes and his investigators complete freedom. Prepare some eppropriate despatch for Lord Vetinari. He'll want to know."

Van der Graaf flinched in pain again. Lady Friejda stifled a sob.

"I anticipated your orders, sir. There is an ambulance waiting for you outside?"

* * *

The attack had come with complete surprise and had lasted for a devastating four or five minutes. Julian realised the injury toll had been limited by their attackers only numbering four and with single-shot crossbows that took time to reload. The moment they realised somebody was organising an effective defence and getting ammo where it was needed, they'd withdrawn and not let themselves be tied down by superior firepower. A classic guerrilla ambush. Julian recalled the briefing that said all four had done national service, been soldiers in Rimwards Howondaland's wars, and knew just when a small static garrison in a soft posting, not expecting any sort of fight, would be weakest. Military ceremonial offered them a gift.

And now he was being reminded that though a fight might last five minutes, the clearing up afterwards took much, much, longer.

Locking up the ambassador's office and giving the key to Martin to keep safe, Julian returned to the garden. He watched the scene unfold. Medical personnel, ambulances, covered stretchers, wounded men being assisted to medical help. Then his jaw hardened and he ran to intervene in one noisy confrontation.

The black servant who had lifted a crossbow and fought alongside his men – bloody effectively, too – had been forcibly disarmed and was being manhandled by two BOSS thugs, with Verkramp screaming spittle into his face.

"What the FUCK do you people think you're playing at!" he shouted. Furiously, he demanded the BOSS soldiers let that man go RIGHT NOW and THIS IS AN ORDER, VERKRAMP.

The Boss men retained a light hold on their prisoner. Liutnant Verkramp and Captain smith-Rhodes stared each other out. Julian was aware of at least two of his soldiers moving to back him up.

"I am within my rights here, Captain." Verkramp said, in a low voice. "This bleck picked up a weapon. Illegally. He then used it against _white people._ This was witnessed. My prisoner."

"Liutnant Verkramp." Julian said, with icily enraged calm. "I don't know if you noticed or if it even occurred to you. But he was fighting on _our_ side. Against people hellbent on killing as many of us as they could get. I may have an unsophisticated soldier's mind. But to me that counts as mitigating circumstances. This man deserves a medal. And a fat bonus to send home."

"You cannot have the blacks fighting." Verkramp insisted. "That undermines the whole purpose of apartheid! I want him tried. Found guilty. Sent home and imprisoned."

As Julian was vocalising the initial V of " _voetsaak, Verkramp_ ", the prisoner opened his mouth.

"Private Joshua N'Gezimi. Forty-fourth Auxiliary Battalion of the Army. Based in Bulowayo. Smith-Rhodesia."

He looked at Julian, without servility. Julian looked back with surprise at the anonymous black face, one of many he saw in the background doing the menial work.

"You were in the Army, Mr… _Private_ … N'Gezimi?"

"Yes, sir. The Embassy has a copy of my service record. I was graded "loyal" and passed the security checks to be sent here."

"But… now you're a gardener?"

Joshua shrugged, as best he could.

"Man has to work, Captain. Man has to feed his family."

Julian grinned. It was a long, happy, grin. Of a man who now had BOSS by the balls and could squeeze hard.

"Do you want to be a soldier again, Private?"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Do you swear obedience to the state of Rimwards Howondaland and to accepted military authority?"

"I so do, sir!"

Julian grinned.

"Liutnant Verkramp. I will only ask you once. Get your hands off MY private soldier. He's under my command now. His recall to active service is hereby backdated to ten-thirty this morning. Which makes it perfectly legal for this auxiliary soldier to take up arms in loyal service of our nation. So you don't have a bloody leg to stand on, Verkramp."

The BOSS officer protested. Julian raised a hand.

"You know, when the fight was going on, I saw several abandoned crossbows on the ground. Suggesting men had run away without even a _pretence_ of a fight. You and your men paraded with us. It would be interesting to check back the serial numbers of those weapons and find out who they were issued to."

He nodded at the BOSS men.

"Can't help noticing your men aren't carrying their issue crossbows, Liutnant. No inference. Just saying."

Verkramp and his men slouched off, defeated. Julian nodded to his new soldier. A ring of grinning men, survivors of the fight, rushed to welcome their new colleague. Julian knew these were fair-minded men: an old axiom of service said there was no apartheid in the front line, and a lot of these guys were veterans. **(7)**

"I'll issue you some sort of uniform as soon as I can." he said. "For now, I'm down a lot of men. Can you ask for me among the black staff if anyone else is ex-Auxiliary? If they're willing, I'll sign them on again. I need the men." _I'm fourteen men down. Breytenbach's in hospital indefinitely._ _Sailor Malan's been killed. Great Offler, that makes me senior military attaché. I now have the authority to do things like this._ _And it'll really piss off Verkramp_ , Julian thought, happily.

He went to confer with Sergeant de Kock. He was going to have to write _those_ sorts of letter. He knew there'd also need to be hard decisions about burying men who'd died a long way from Home. He could see that bloody woman Sacharissa Cripslock running towards him, waving her notebook and trying to grab his attention. He really, really, wanted to see Ruth again. But there'd be time later for that…

* * *

And a burnt-out coach, with the charred remnants of quite a lot of crossbow bolts in the wreckage, was found some way out on the other side of the Least Gate. The men who had been driving in it were nowhere to be found. The horses were recovered in the back gardens of several citizens, placidly eating grass, verge plants and prize vegetables.

* * *

Johanna Smith-Rhodes caught the news in the afternoon edition of the Times. She read the story, felt concern for her uncle and aunt, and was whole-heartedly glad Julian was alive and unhurt. Her attention was caught by an iconograph of Private N'Gezimi in a motley uiniform the other men had found for him. It had been very neatly pressed and shaped. She smiled, knowing black auxiliaries in her day had been fanatically proud of their appearance. Nothing had changed there, then. She also felt pride in Julian, who appeared to have learnt from her about subtly challenging authority. And black auxiliary soldiers were perfectly legal, even in Rimwards Howondaland. She smiled at the newspaper incredulously repeating the Chargé D'Affaire's statement that he understood his Military Attaché's need to make up the numbers somehow, and that it demonstrated his nation was not as inflexible as people unfairly thought it was, on issues of race.

She let a stray thought cross her mind about her butler Claude. How many black Embassy employees had been Auxiliaries, and fought in her country's wars? She'd ask him. If it came to a fight – and she was uneasily certain it would – another set of hands capable of using weapons would be useful. _No sense in his pretending he never served_ , she thought.

* * *

 **(1)** This was a problem in Britain in the 1970's. Cabinet ministers and members of parliament were only too pleased to give _**Who's Who**_ the fullest detail about themselves, including their home addresses and telephone numbers. Then organisations like the Provisional IRA came along and realised all they need do to track down home addresses of targets was to go into a public library, pull down the reference copy of WW, and take notes. It took several assassinations of senior politicians on their own doorsteps for British police and security services to realise where the terrorists just might be getting unerringly accurate information from. Today, _**Who's Who**_ candidates are offered a discretion option of giving no address at all, or else a working address of the sort that (as with Lord Vetinari or Sam Vimes) takes no genius to work out, and is useless to terrorists as it will inevitably be very well guarded. More mundane burglars were also keen readers of _**Who's Who,**_ knowing they could call on the named person at home since they'd be out during office hours.

 **(2)** After visiting Roundworld and being mistaken for an actor who'd played a wizard in a moving picture series, Johanna had insisted Ponder add this to his WW insertion as a private joke. She also wondered how many people would read _all_ his academic titles and wonder where the Hell _Caltech, Pasadena_ was. It was still a legitimate title, though: Ponder could still draw a wage there. Every so often they revisited to keep up with friends they'd made. See _**The Many Worlds Interpretation.**_

 **(3** ) And learnt a diplomatic protocol: all weapons needed to be covered and delivered separately, as the Rimwards Howondalandian army did not have "the freedom of Ankh-Morpork", ie, it could not march through the City with bayonets fixed and its points gleaming. It couldn't even _march_. Reasoning that thirty soldiers and sailors merely _walking_ across town in a relaxed out-of-step amble wouldn't look right, Julian had obtained permission to hire an omnibus and truck them over, their crossbows, bows and ammo following in a separate vehicle. Forewarned, the City Watch guarded the weapons-carrier. And thus diplomacy happened.

 **(4)** Shameless self-promotion: to my story _**Murder Most 'Orrible.**_ Look, there's a lot of backstory to my characters.

 **(5)** Johanna would have agreed with the sentiment but would have corrected some of the glaring spelling and grammatical errors.

 **(6)** Narrative Causality makes this imperative for normally immaculately dressed and beautiful women forced to rough-house it in a fight. Any designer dress will inevitably split right up to the waist. Upper bodies may also be partially exposed as abused seams surrender.

 **(7)** Really true. One of many pressures on apartheid came from men who had done front-line service in the South African Defence Forces and realised it's hard to hate or despise the black soldier who's fighting as you do and taking the same risks you take. " _no apartheid in the front line_ " was something of a truism. The modern South African Army is multi-racial and integrated; in the old days South African black soldiers were, officially at least, segregated as "auxiliaries". But this distinction soon broke down in combat.


	8. Exothermic Alchemy for beginners

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. Getting better, despite appalling hospital food.**_

 _ **It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate. Getting clothing that fits and doesn't look like Fools' Guild surplus found in a shonky shop. The difficulties of being a young expectant mother in Ankh-Morpork. Especially if somebody's arrived in town who intends to kill you. And has started some almost-random acts of destruction to get to a short-list of people they really do not like. Terrorism arrives in Ankh-Morpork.**_

 _ **One necessary edit made; the President has been given a far better name. Louis van Baalsteuwel, or "son of the demon Baal" - very apt for a long-time career politician!**_

Alchemists' Guild member Roger Trawler was _ **proud**_ of the business he'd built up, after several expensive false starts. Trawler Alchemical and Scientifick supplied both equipment and alchemical materials to the city's businesses, schools, alchemical enterprises and other end-users with an interest.

After the earlier, regrettable and necessary hiatuses in his business caused by what investigating agencies had described as "improper handling and storage of volatile materials", he was on track again. Why, there hadn't been a _major_ explosion there for _three years_ now. He'd hired staff felt by people like Commander Vimes and the Patrician to have a _far_ better grasp of alchemical materials, and how to store them safely. He had recent graduate Assassins on his payroll, for instance, who'd been trained by people like Mr Mericet, and who had survived Exothermic Alchemy and Ordnance Disposal training delivered by Doctor Smith-Rhodes. He had to hand it to the girl… _lady_. She certainly knew about her alchemy, or at least the bits of it that sparkled prettily and then went " _Ka-Boom!_ " Her terse advice not to store leaky bottles of glycerine on the shelf above the carboys of Sweet Spirits of Nitre had certainly helped. And other employees had been trained by the Artificers, who also knew about managing explosions at work. **(1)**

He patted the discreet plaques on the gatepost as he left to go home for the evening. They advertised Security Consultancy was in the hands of the Guild of Assassins, and that his insurance premiums were fully paid up to the Guild of Thieves.

 _No_ , Roger Trawler thought, _the future looks good, with little risk of loud bangs._ He turned onto Runecaster Way, **(2)** whistling a happy song.

* * *

The white Pegasus banked in the air and its wings beat more slowly as it spiralled down towards what was becoming, to its pilots, a boringly familiar flat-topped grey roof. Olga Romanoff acknowledged the ground-control wizard, who had sent up a "you are clear to land" signal in the form of a green fireball. This had, very carefully, gone _nowhere near_ her Pegasus.

She patted her despatch cases, checking they were still there, and all hooves dropped in a perfect four-point landing.

"Nice landing, lassie." her co-pilot approved. She grinned at Buggy Swires. He'd craw-stepped them to Howondaland without a hitch.

"Hi, Eddie." she said, greeting the wizard warmly.

"Hi, Olga. Haven't seen you since, oh, Monday?"

"Big events in the city, Eddie. _Trouble._ Lord Vetinari wanted your side to be fully informed as soon as he could manage. My instructions are to wait for a written response, overnight if needs be, and fly back without delay."

Edouard de Kockamaanje nodded understanding. Now discharged from the Army, he was the Pegasus Service link-man in Rimwards Howondaland. Olga and her fellow pilot Irena Politek were still members of the City Watch, but on detached service, alongside a staff of Feegles, to fly things anywhere on the Disc on behalf of Ankh-Morpork, quite literally at a moment's notice. The Service now handled diplomatic bags for Embassies in Ankh-Morpork, who valued getting the stuff moved far faster than anything the Klatchians could manage. And at commercial rates that undercut the Klatchians by a long way.

Their importance recognised by Vetinari, these days a careful breeding programme was slowly increasing the number of Pegasii, **(3)** and new pilots were being trained to supplement the Service.

Eddie nodded sagely.

"So… you might be, you know, available for dinner tonight?" he inquired. Buggy Swires sniggered.

"You'd better get me a better hotel than the last fleapit, then." she said, frankly. _Overseas travel on behalf of the City. Nobody knows if I'm Palace Secretariat, City Watch, Air Force or Post Office. All four want to manage me but I still only get one wage. There had better be some bloody perks. And Pratoria is capital city of this bloody country. It must have_ **one** _good hotel._

"Business. Special despatches from Lord Vetinari for the Foreign Secretary, the Staadtspraesident. Urgent diplomatic bag for the Embassy. And the most recent copies of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ , for anyone wanting to know how Dimwell FC did against the Pig-Packers."

"Better come downstairs, then. You'll have word-of-mouth from Vetinari?"

"Yes, but not for you. Foreign Affairs Minister only."

And Rimwards Howondaland received its first news of the outrage at its Embassy.

* * *

Recently graduated Wizard Anthony Theopracticus ran a packing shift at Trawler Alchemical and Scientifick. He hadn't really seen himself doing this after graduating. But a job was a job, it paid good dollar, and it was a practical use for his training. He just had to make sure that, for instance, anything involving, for e.g. nitrocellulose, was really well packed. The Post Office _complained_ about exploding parcels in transit.

He managed a shift composed of people of at least five species, and he was learning fast about office and inter-species politics. At present they were late and behind schedule. Not ridiculously so. It could still be despatched before eight for next-day delivery. He just had to inspire them to get a bloody move on and not cut any corners.

Cutting short the persistent bickering between Rolf Pitdeputysnephew and Pectolite, he pitched in with them, picking and packing and ticking off the needed things to go to Hugglestones' School Alchemy Department. It was a large order, a once-a-term stock-up, but all he needed to do was get it to the railway station to meet the 20:37 on the Altiplano Express Line to Zemphis and beyond. Then it was somebody else's problem.

"Must be critical, Ponder's mucking in!" somebody said. Anthony Theopracticus sighed. Just because people claimed he looked a little bit like Ponder Stibbons, what with the slightly floppy black hair, the round specs, the beardlessness and the slightly worried look, the nickname had stuck.

He reflected it probably wasn't _all_ that bad. After all, looking like Ponder Stibbons had been good for Ponder, in that a strikingly attractive red-haired Assassin had taken a shine to him. Anthony was optimistic enough to consider that life demonstrably owed him a gorgeous redhead. _Well, I'd settle for a gorgeous blonde. With a few freckles in the right places._

He rolled his sleeves up, and got down to it with the packing crew.

* * *

Charles Smith-Rhodes, the Interior Minister, put down the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ with an inscrutable grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Marvellous concept, this craw-stepping" he commented. "Last night and this morning's copies of the _**Times**_ delivered on the day. Even on the fastest flying carpets, they're usually almost a week old."

He smiled across the office at Olga, who had been invited to remain at what was becoming an informal Cabinet meeting at the Bureau of Foreign Affairs.

"You couldn't take a few private messages with you when you return, Officer Romanoff?" he asked, politely.

"Of course, sir. To your son at the Embassy?"

"And to my broker at the Stock Exchange." he said, matter-of-factly. "Right now I've got useful information, anything up to a week before anyone else gets it."

" _Business_ , Charles." The Staadtspraesident, Head of Government, said, with a hint of impatience. " _Other_ than the business of the Smith-Rhodes family suddenly being several hundred thousand dollars richer, by this time tomorrow."

He looked severely at his Interior Minister for a moment. Then smiled slightly and said "Better get Rothschild here. Having a Chancellor to count the beans and make monetary decisions is sometimes useful. I'm betting this outrage has depressed the value of the _rand_ by quite a few points. Can't have that."

There was general assent. The Foreign Minister lifted a copy of the Times. It prominently showed the gates of the Embassy in Ankh-Morpork being guarded by one white and one black soldier.

"What do we do about **this**?" he asked. "I know it's exceptional circumstances and an emergency, but even so it's…"

"Completely legal." The Staadtspraesident cut him short. "And from a public relations viewpoint, quite inspired. Your son's idea, Charles."

"Also necessary." Charles Smith-Rhodes said. "The Embassy was attacked. Nearly half the security detail were killed or wounded. The two senior Military Attachés are dead or recovering from wounds. Even if we start selecting for replacements today, Julian won't get them for _weeks_. His first priority is to make up the gaps in his manpower. The _politics_ of that take second place. And we note the acting Ambassador has politely declined, with thanks, Lord Vetinari's offer to loan Ankh-Morporkian soldiers and City Watch to assist in security."

Staadtspraesident van Baalsteuwel smiled again, faintly.

"Loyal auxiliaries. From Smith-Rhodesia, I see. Recalled to service _by_ a Smith-Rhodes. Quite neatly poetic. And according to this urgent despatch from your son, Charles, one of them should get a medal. Although I note Julian recommends a fat cash bonus payable to his wife. And six children. Well, we can show generosity."

He made a note on a pad, checked the spelling of a name, and beckoned an underling. The civil servant vanished discreetly.

"And we can inform the _**Times**_ we approve. Give them a press release via Officer Romanoff. Where's Defence? Should be here by now. I want to tell him what he's agreeing to."

He enumerated the points.

"Black auxiliaries, who are trained and immediately available, recalled to service and representing the nation in Ankh-Morpork. This Private N'Gemini to be paid a suitable reward for heroism – Julian notes he fired the first shot back, and got the other men pepped up to do something. Pin a medal on him suitable to a brave and loyal man. And tell the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ exactly what we've elected to do about him. Oh, and… _Mrs Vinhuis_?"

"Who did _exactly_ what a frontierswoman would have done a century ago." Charles said, smoothly. "Got ammunition to where it was needed. Shrugged off hostiles shooting at her. Picked up a disregarded crossbow, loaded it, and put a close miss near enough to loosen an attacker's bowels. Julian was quite taken with that. As was the _**Times**_."

He opened the paper to a Page Three shot of a dishevelled and satisfied-looking Katerina Vinhuis, in a dirty and torn dress, hair dishevelled, right leg exposed to the stocking top, who was cradling a military crossbow with bayonet fixed, and looking as bad-ass as any Boor frontierswoman helping to defend the _laager_ against Zulus. **(4)** Otto Chriek had taken _lots_ of pictures of her, so as to select _exactly_ the right iconographs for publication. **(5)**

"Good heavens." said the Staadtspraesident. "And she's on the strength as social secretary? The Ankh-Morpork Embassy must host some memorable parties."

Katerina had been acclaimed as a heroine. The _Times_ , seemingly, couldn't get enough of her.

"A friend of a _certain family member_ , apparently." Charles said, keeping his voice neutral. "Who went to school with her. Something must have rubbed off."

The Staadtspraesident nodded understanding. He'd met Johanna Smith-Rhodes. **(6)**

"Authorise a bonus payment to Mrs Vinhuis? Nothing too large, perhaps enough for them to buy a house with, or something. Also research the appropriate medal for a civilian who gets caught up in a battle, and fights like a cornered Rattel. Thank you."

Another civil service runner discreetly left the room.

"And now." the Staadtspraesident said, his voice suddenly as cold as a mamba's blood. "Let's discuss what we can do about the renegades and traitors who attacked their own people. They are, in every applicable sense, dead men walking. A shame a man has only one neck. We shall see what suggestions BOSS has to offer. Those people must be useful for _something_. "

* * *

Johanna Smith-Rhodes had borrowed the office at Raven House and was industriously marking homework. Doing a routine chore on site meant she didn't have to lug a deadweight of student work home with her, and it was a welcome distraction from current concerns.

Strictly speaking, it wasn't her office any more. The incumbent Housemistress, Gillian Lansbury, sat opposite her at the desk, their chairs and working areas angled so they didn't conflict. Gillian was marking her own students' work. Every so often they conferred on either an outstanding, or else an egregious, example of homework offered. Commiseration or shaken heads were exchanged.

Gillian watched her colleague anxiously. Living under informal notice of a contract to inhume must be _worrying_. As well as being so heavily pregnant. Gillian, in appearance a bohemian and rather hippie type of young woman, of the sort who preferred sandals and headscarves, had a persona that sang out "Art Teacher" at the world. Paint splashes in various colours on the regulation Assassin black were a big clue. With the large hoop earrings and big round glasses that magnified her eyes, an initial assessment of her might be "harmless, unworldly and unthreatening."

Then the observer making that initial assessment might, or might not, reflect she'd survived a Mature Students Course and passed out as an Assassin. People with access to good information might recall she'd once fought off an attack from Howondalandian wereleopards and wounded two of them. Prudent students might reflect she had substantial experience in sourcing paint pigments and making her own paint. And that even in _normal_ circumstances, many available oil paints could be deadly poisonous. **(7)** Being assigned to manufacture your own paintbox by Miss Lansbury was her version of the Vimes Run. **(8).**

The two worked on at their marking for an hour or so. Gillian broke a long silence by suggesting a coffee break. Johanna nodded agreement.

Gillian made reference to the big current news story, the attack on the Embassy, the one the Times headline referred to as _**Agents Of Terror Strike In The Heart Of The City!**_ **(9)**

"You've got family there, haven't you?" she said, gently. Johanna nodded.

"Ja. I must go to see my oncle in the Lady Sybil. I em told his wounds are minor."

Gillian nodded.

"Captain Smith-Rhodes. The man who led the defence. He must be related to you?"

"Distant cousin. From a different brench of the femily. But we are all descendents of the great Sir Cecil. We have a sense of femily loyalty to all. I em not surprised ebout Julian. He is capable end resourceful."

Gillian smiled. She pointed to the iconograph of Katerina Vinhuis.

"Impressive-looking lady. Think she's material for a Mature Student Class?" Gillian inquired.

Johanna laughed softly.

"I must speak sternly to her when I see her next." she said. "Even when we were et school together, I knew Katti was not cut out to be a fighter. Her temperament is wrong. I will tell her off, firmly, ebout putting herself into places she is not equipped to go to. _I_ do not do being a pleasant hostess et parties. _She_ ought to refrain from getting into fights."

And then, without warning, Johanna sniffled, coughed back a sob, then gave up and burst into uncontrollable floods of tears. Gillian was shocked.

* * *

Anthony Theopracticus breathed a huge sigh of relief. The Hugglestones order had been finished and loaded onto the last cart for transfer at the railway station. The cart driver had been prevailed upon to wait, at overtime pay rates, till the job was over, and had trundled off into the night happily enough.

Anthony reflected, uneasily, that his packing shift had dawdled on picking and packing until their personal timeclocks had nudged into overtime rates. _Then_ they'd got a move on, and sure enough had finished the job in good time for just before eight. He hoped Mr Trawler would not comment on this. He brightened. He just needed to sign off a few bits of paperwork. Then he could clock off himself, maybe meet up with some of his fellow graduates in the Mended Drum and exchange horror stories of life after university, graduate Wizards suddenly confronted with the realities of _working_ for a living.

Passing between the packing sheds and the offices, in the winter dark he very nearly tripped over a large bulky mass where a large bulky mass should not have been. He swore, then as his eyes adjusted he recognised the night security troll, Simetite. Sprawled unconscious on the ground. Something, he realised, was very wrong here. Anthony was suddenly aware he was probably the last person in the warehouse. He decided to move more quickly towards the street and any assistance he could shout up.

* * *

Gillian deliberately moved into the corridor and briefly shut the door behind her. Good, no students around. She went to a window and looked out.

"Mr Maroon?" she called, to a porter.

"Yes, miss?"

"Could you find out if Doctor Bellamy is still on the premises? Please ask her if she can drop by Raven House Office. I'd value her help in a delicate matter."

"Won't take a moment, miss!" Maroon replied.

Gillian took a deep breath, and went back to comforting Johanna. She suspected another woman with greater experience of pregnancy would have insights that she lacked. She vaguely suspected a lot of it was _hormonal_. Matron Igorina had tried to explain it to her once. Hormones made teenage boys into sullen aggressive monosyllabic little sods. Hormones made teenage girls into moody walking sulks. Chemicals, apparently. Alchemical agents the body had hair-trigger tolerance to, and which could really screw your head up if there was a sudden surge of them. Igor science was trying to identify the causative agents involved but by definition these were trace chemicals, so they were dealing with parts _per billion_ here.

Gillian had asked, in the manner of an Assassin identifying a problem and looking for a remedy, if there was anything that could counter a hormonal surge in an adult woman, and allow rationality to take over again.

"Based on close experiential observation and longitudinal study over a period of centuries, chocolate helps." Igorina had advised. " _Lots_ of chocolate. Then if chocolate fails, there is a heroic remedy, wine. A good Chardonnay is mandated _in extremis_."

Gillian, in the middle of hugging and making the sort of soothing noises mandated by the situation, suggested making some hot chocolate. She had some _really_ good chocolate powder from Wienrich and Boettcher's, that a parent had given her? Johanna continued sobbing and crying. It occurred to Gillian that she must have been holding this in for _ages_ and it was all coming out at once, poor woman. The Embassy attack had probably been the trigger, with so many family and friends involved.

"Oh, dear." Davinia Bellamy said, letting herself in and hastily closing the door. "This is Month Seven and Eight stuff."

"I think it's the attacks and threats of attacks." Gillian said. "You know, on her family and friends."

Davinia smoothly inserted herself into the group hug.

"Oh, no, you're wrong." she asserted. "She's around seven months gone. There doesn't _have_ to be a reason. There, there, Johanna. Let it all out, my love. Don't feel weak or as if you're letting the side down or anything. I do this too. I'm pretty sure Emmanuelle will too."

Davinia paused, and added, grimly, "Emmanuelle. She's having too damn easy a time of it. Hopefully it'll creep up unawares and _really_ knock her for six."

Gillian excused herself from the hug and went looking for chocolate powder, milk, a method of heating it, and three cups. She felt this was going to be a long evening.

* * *

Anthony Theopracticus tried to keep in the light, such as it was. He felt safer there from whatever might be lurking in the dark. As the Guild of Assassins drily pointed out to new students, this was an elementary error. You merely ended up exposing yourself un-necessarily, whilst still being unable to see what might be in the really dark shadows. This tendency to go into the light, on the part of a client who had been spooked, was something an Assassin should _exploit._

Somebody in the really dark shadows by the warehouse wall laughed to himself. This too was an error pointed out to novice Assassins. You did not _gloat._ You got on with it, in silence.

But the gloater had just recognised, or thought he'd recognised, a bonus target. He stepped forward.

"Wizard boy." Said a voice from the gloom. "You thought you'd _won_ , didn't you? In Howondaland. I know your face, wizard boy. Thet pretty wife of yours is going to cry over your coffin. End you'll never see your child."

Anthony Theopracticus was terrified. _What's he talking about? I've never been to Howondaland. I don't have a wife. Unfortunately. Pretty or otherwise. Or children?_

His brain worked frantically fast.

"I don't know who you want but it's not me! I've never been to Howondaland! I'm not married!" He was trying to assemble the syllables of a defensive spell. He tried desperately to remember.

The unseen harshly accented voice laughed grimly.

"Nice try, wizard. But you're him. _Stibbons._ I'd know thet face ennywhere!"

There was a pause.

" _Tot siens_ , wizard." the voice said.

Anthony felt the crushing impact of a crossbow bolt. It hurt like hell. The unfinished syllables of a spell turned into hot rainbow-tinged steam that passed over his attacker but did not harm. He had the satisfaction of seeing his assailant flinch in fear for a second, then shake his head and laugh.

Spent and dying, Anthony did something more basic. As part of his mind said, bitterly, " _Well, I'll never get my gorgeous redhead now!",_ his last breath was a curse to the man who had just killed him. The response was a second crossbow bolt, from closer range. Anthony Theopracticus, deceased wizard, slumped to the earth. His killer nudged the corpse with a boot, spat in contempt, and walked on.

The shade of Anthony Theopracticus hovered sadly in the air, aware of his assailant joining three others who were robbing the warehouse.

"So _that's_ what it was all about? Just robbery?" his essence vocalised.

 **AND MISTAKEN IDENTITY.**

The new voice came from somewhere behind where his left ear should have been, had he still had a tangible body. He jumped.

 **ANTHONY JAMES ALOYSIUS THEOPRACTICUS?** said the voice.

"Yes. That's me." The wizard said, gloomily. He wondered why he'd had no foreshadowing of his own death. They said wizards got to know in advance, didn't they? He felt cheated. A big bank loan to be blown in its entirety on a week in Ephebe before dying… beaches. Drinks. Redheads. Then he remembered something his killer had said.

"He called me _Stibbons_?"

Death nodded, sympathetically.

 **THERE IS A MARKED RESEMBLENCE, YES. NOT A COMPLETE ONE, BUT EASY TO MISTAKE IN THE GLOOM.**

Anthony sighed. It made sense. The similarity was close enough for him to have picked up a nickname. And he reflected that nobody got to high office in the University without making enemies. Not even somebody like Ponder Stibbons. And, detached from glands and hormones, he reflected that marrying a gorgeous red-haired Assassin is all very well and enviable. But it must add a new dimension of terror to marital disagreements. What if your wife wanted a quick separation without the hassle of lawcourts?

 **THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO WANT PONDER STIBBONS DEAD, YES. WHILE THEY ARE OF THE SAME NATIONALITY, THEY DO NOT INCLUDE HIS WIFE, WHO REMAINS PASSIONATELY DEVOTED TO HIM. SHALL WE GET ON WITH IT?**

Anthony nodded, mutely. A scythe swung.

"Why didn't I get advance warning?" he asked.

 **I CAN ONLY THINK THE SYSTEM'S COCKED UP AGAIN. IT MAKES IT EASIER WITH THOSE OF A MAGICAL PERSUASION, IF THEY ALREADY KNOW. SAVES ME HAVING TO BREAK THE SAD NEWS. BUT EVERY SO OFTEN IT SCREWS UP. DON'T ASK ME WHY.**

Anthony sighed.

"Do I go now?"

Death consulted an hourglass. He tapped it with a bony finger.

 **APPARENTLY YOU ARE TO BE COLLECTED. SOMETHING IN YOUR FAMILY TREE CONFERS A SPECIAL PRIVILEGE.**

He paused.

 **SHE'S ON HER WAY NOW. WELL, I'VE GOT A BUSY SCHEDULE. BUT YOU WILL BE LOOKED AFTER. GOODBYE, ANTHONY.**

Death whistled. A large white stallion trotted into view. Anthony thought that explained the horse's hoofs he could hear.

Wait.." he said, as Death swung himself into Binky's saddle. But the white horse rode into the sky without a backward glance.

 _Isn't he meant to look backward and say goodbye_ , Anthony thought, bitterly. _Now I have become as they are._ He hovered in the vicinity of his recent body. In the background, four men, including his killer, were manouvreing a hand-cart packed with goods and barrels. Anthony, freed from bodily care, recognised some items on the cart and speculated where the explosion was going to happen. He wondered. _She?_

* * *

"And that's it, sir." Ponder Stibbons said, as he and Mustrum Ridcully took a cup of tea at the end of the day. "I keep getting this dream, this kind of message. It seems to tie in with Trawler's Alchemickal Supplies. You know, who have a contract to supply us."

Ridcully grunted, reflectively.

"Have you discussed this with Johanna?" he inquired. "The gal should know."

"I don't know how to go about it, sir." Ponder said, with honesty. "She's stressed up as it is. Her uncle took a wound in that attack on the Embassy. She's a lot fonder of her cousin Julian than she lets on, and it worries her that he was a clear target. And then the best friend she's known since they were both twelve took it into her head to get into the fight. Which Johanna described as being like a sparrow trying to head-butt a vulture. Errm."

"Sometimes a sparrow _can_ put the beak in on a vulture, lad." Ridcully said, kindly. "If it pecks the right place. Or if it's got a Feegle streak in it."

"And now these sort-of-dreams, sir. Not the usual sort of things a wizard gets if he's Forewarned. Usually, people who get the message tell you they just _know_. They don't get nice helpful full-colour Moving Pictures, sir, as a rule. It doesn't even feel like it's for _me_. Like getting a crossed Clacks message. "

Ponder had been getting visions, dreams, flash images, of somebody who looked like him being killed by crossbow-bolts in a dark place. These had begun about a week previously. Shocked by the first pictures, he had sensed a certain familiarity with the location. It had taken him time to pin it down to Trawler's Alchemickal, a business that serviced the University's need for raw material and equipment, and which he'd had to visit several times.

"Well, we can deal with that." Ridcully said, briskly. "You do not go to Trawler's _at all_. Hard to get yerself killed there if you never visit the place. I'll also put out loud and clear that anyone seekin' to kill a Wizard on MY Faculty will be tracked down, pursued by demons, burnt alive, dissolved in acid, and generally have their lives made miserable in all the thousands of ways old-time thaumaturgy can possibly envisage."

He sat back.

"Given any thought to names for the child yet, lad?" he inquired. "Mustrum" is good for a boy."

* * *

The shade of Anthony Theopracticus hovered miserably in the grounds of Trawler's Alchemickal. The thieves had departed with their haul. Death was long gone. The night-security troll Simetite was groaning back into consciousness. Anthony watched him, glad the troll at least was still alive. Maybe when he realised, he'd go and get the Watch or something…

Anthony wondered why he could still hear hooves. They seemed to be circling above his head, as if an unseen rider was searching for something. Then he wondered what he was hearing hooves _with_.

He watched Simetite haul himself to his knees, like accelerated continental drift. He frowned. That sounded like _singing_ above him, or at least the uncertain vocalisation of somebody who didn't quite know the tune yet.

" _Hi – to yah!_ No, dammit, that isn't right…. _Toy – oh – TA!..._ Blast, what _was_ it…. _Hi-ho-ti-ho, HOH-jo, ho-ti-OH-joh_ …"

A tune of some sort was emerging. The singer had the self-consciousness of somebody who knows her voice is naturally thin and will never be a loud clear contralto. But she was determined to try anyway.

As the troll blinked at Anthony's dead body and then threw up, Anthony watched with vague unfocused interest. He'd never known trolls could vomit, _but thinking about it, it makes a sort of sense…_

A voice said "Anthony James Aloysius Theopracticus?"

It was young, well, sounded young, and female. Anthony shifted his focus to regard the young woman, well, girl, on the horse. She was petite, and wore armour. He noted the breastplate seemed a tad optimistic for her build and wobbled a lot. Under the horned helmet, he noticed she was blonde. She had a lightly freckled face with a little snubby nose.

"Sorry." She apologised. "I'm new at this. The other girls tell me they don't do too many urban collection routes. Cities are new to us. Bit late, I'm afraid. Nearly went to the University, for some reason. Are you getting on?" She patted the saddle.

"Errr… you're a Valkyrie?" Anthony asked, uncertainly. She smiled.

"Probationary, at the moment." she said. She reached up and settled the fit of a slightly too large helmet. She extended a hand and smiled uncertainly.

"Þrimhildr." she said. It had been just her luck to get a name beginning with a letter eight hundred years obsolete in modern Morporkian. **(10)**

Anthony made a brave stab at the sound. " _Drrim..? Thrimm? T'rim_ …?"

She shook her head.

"Just call me Hilda? It's possibly easier."

Anthony was invited to mount the horse in front of her. He got on, finding it easier than it seemed, and realising with a thrill that he had solidity again. And armour-clad or not, that was a _woman's body_ pressing into his back…

"You young wizards don't get to eat much, do you?" Hilda said. "You're all _ribs_ , poor boy! Never mind, you'll fill out in Valhalla. "

"Not that I'm complaining." Anthony said, as the horse gained height. Below, Simetite was staggering to the road to see if he could find a Watch patrol. "But I'm a wizard? Valhalla is for barbarian heroes?"

Hilda squeezed his chest gently. "Well, you _descend_ from Hubland heroes. You're one- thousand-and-twenty-fourth part Barbarian from an ancestor nine or ten generations ago. And you died here whilst trying to put a spell together to fight back with, and a curse on your lips. That's dying in battle, for wizards."

She smiled manically.

" _Ta –Dah_! You get Valhalla! These days there's a _table d'hote_ menu, private dining upstairs, and evening classes from the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Saveloy. You'll like him. He says you can never get too many educated men."

She paused, and shyly added: "It's not against the rules for _you_ to, er, ask, for instance _me,_ to dinner. _I_ think there aren't enough educated clever interesting men there either. Errr?"

She left it hanging in the air. Anthony felt happier. He'd had to _die_ first, admittedly, but there was a pretty blonde there, who seemed to like him…

And down below in his now unheeded past life, Officers Fittley and Ping of the Watch were on the scene of a murder/robbery.

* * *

Gillian Lansbury sighed a deep reflective sigh.

"There _is_ hot chocolate, when you want it." she said, with loud forced cheerfulness, but was unheeded.

"I'm getting fet end clumsy!" Johanna wailed. "I've never been this fet before. I'm worried I cennot lose it egain efter the baby!"

"Oh, I _know_!" Davinia wailed back. She was flooding with tears too. "I worry Peter won't find me attractive any more. I'm scared of getting even worse stretch-marks. I hate waddling like a duck. I feel fat and ugly _and old_!"

Gillian gently removed Davinia's glasses for safety. She knew what a pig it was if they got knocked or scratched or a lens cracked. Heedless, the two soon-to-be-mothers got the flooding hormones out of their system. Gillian hoped. She took a sip of the hot coffee, to restore her own emotional balance, grateful that at the moment there were no candidates likely to get her pregnant. Being single had compensations…

"I hev to pee every five minutes! Swollen _enkles_! I hev to sleep sitting up! I went to punch Ponder because he's getting it so easy, then I realise it's not his fault, end I feel so _guilty_!"

"If I don't stop myself, I take it out on Peter and the boys! Just because they're nearest and male. _Targets_! But I love my husband and I love my sons!"

Gillian sighed and listened to the six-or-seven-months-gone litany of complaints.

"And, Johanna. I've never been happier _in my life_!" Davinia nearly shrieked, through floods of tears. Gillian shook her head. She resolved a husband and children could wait for a while. **(11)**

* * *

"So what's been taken?" Captain Carrot asked. He'd been called to the scene because Officer Ping had once seen an Assassin bomb disposal team in action. The Assassins had been generous with information. Ping now had a suspicion. It had merited alerting senior officers.

"There's a warehouse manager in there now checking the shelves, sir." Ping said. "But I saw a gap where there should have been Agatea Clay. Barrels of."

Carrot frowned.

"Not Agatean Fireclay?" he asked.

"No, sir. Not _yet._ The Assassins who dealt with the incident at the Lady Sybil **(12)** explained to me that plain Agatea Clay is the, you know, starting point. It's harmless in itself, but when you _add_ things. Errr."

Carrot winced.

"Send a Clacks to the Assassins, would you? Priority. We need somebody here who knows about Exothermic Alchemy."

* * *

Olga Romanoff relaxed and poured herself a strictly non-alcoholic drink. The guava flavoured sparkling water was nice, she conceded. And Eddie was paying.

"So you're back later tonight?" he asked, disappointedly. She smiled. Being a witch by qualification had its perks. She wouldn't have learnt to fly otherwise. A presentable – well, fairly presentable – young wizard who was enamoured with her and who was prepared to buy her dinner was icing on the cake.

"It has to be as soon as possible." she said. "They're paging me when the official responses are prepared for Vetinari. And outgoing diplomatic bags for the Embassy."

"But we can eat first." Eddie said, quietly determined not to let the moment go too quickly. There was a crackle in the very carefully modulated atmosphere. Unresolved sexual tension between magic-users, if left unchecked, could eventually power a small town. At the very least, the immediate intimate atmosphere between Eddie and Olga was sparkling gently.

"I'd complain if I had to fly hungry." she said. "Opening a pack of sandwiches at twenty thousand feet is not easy, let me tell you!"

"Olga? If these thugs, you know, the ones from the Tobacco Farm, who've escaped prison, are in Ankh-Morpork, aren't you worried that makes you a target?"

She shrugged.

"I was barely there. I was flying a lot. Oh, they probably registered me and Irena, but when you fly, your face tends to be covered and you wear a lot of baggy clothing. I daresay if they see a woman on a Pegasus, they might work it out, but I'm not worrying myself about it. No Forewarning, for one thing. So I'll probably survive this. I really hope we can get them before they take a poke at anyone else, though. Ambassador van der Graaf is a good guy. I'm sorry he got hurt."

* * *

Mr Stippler the porter had stopped dead. A routine message-run to Raven House Office, to track down Doctor Smith-Rhodes with a Watch communication, had become complicated.

Unheeded, he smiled wanly at Gillian Lansbury.

"It took Mrs Stippler like this when she was carrying our first, miss." he said, a time-served father who had seen it all before, but from a different angle.

He stopped smiling for a second.

"And our second. _And_ our third. It's sort of built-in. You just have to make allowances and see she gets lots of hot sweet tea, and try not to complain too much." He lowered his voice discreetly. "Tell you what, I don't fancy being either of the husbands later on!"

Gillian smiled, in a brittle way.

"Cup of tea, Mr Stippler?"

"Don't mind if I do, Miss Lansbury! Thank you very much!"

* * *

Ponder Stibbons, supervising a late session in the H.E.M., rocked back on his heels for a moment as some kind of magical flux rolled over him. He had a very brief mental flash of a huge building that looked like the upturned hull of a Nothingfjordian longship turned upside-down. There was a suspicion of _revelling._ His hair stood briefly on end. Then it passed, and he felt as if the weight of a week had been taken from his shoulders.

"Sir?" a student wizard said, anxiously. "Professor Stibbons?"

Ponder shook himself. He didn't know what had happened, but knew with certainty that would be the last of the visions. He wondered what the Hells it had been _for_ and why it had happened to _him_. Then returned to the task at hand.

"Just random magical flux, I expect." He said. "You can't shield against _everything_."

* * *

"Well, that was jolly cathartic." Davinia Bellamy said, sipping what had been hotter chocolate. "You've got to get it out of your system, Johanna. You'll _burst_ otherwise."

Johanna nodded assent from behind a chocolate moustache. She now felt emptied and clearer-headed. And it was good chocolate.

Mr Stippler had been thanked and sent off with a discretion-buying donation to the Porters' Benevolent Fund. The note he'd brought with him was in Johanna's other hand.

"So you're going personally?" Gillian said.

"Ja. Simple job. Identify whet hes been stolen from Trawler's Alchemickal, end edvise the Wetch es to whet it cen be used for. I em a Special, efter ell. I cennot say _no_. Ceptein Cerrot will hev secured the erea, end the Guild hes a special coach for me when I em ready to leave for home. It cen trevel via Runecester Way."

"Good. Can I get a lift, Johanna, if it isn't too much bother?"

* * *

A cart, apparently carrying miscellaneous building equipment, was waved through Least Gate by the bored Watch guard. Two of the four men on it nodded acknowledgement as it passed on towards the New Ankh suburb of Leastways. They were just one more in a long succession of incoming and outgoing vehicles, nothing for the Watchmen here to get too bothered about.

* * *

The Assassin coach was waved into Trawler's yard by the duty Watchman. The Assassins crewing it went into standard bodyguarding positions, and one leapt down to confer with Captain Carrot. Then he knocked on the cab door to announce "all clear, ma'am" and courteously extended an arm to Johanna. She climbed unsteadily down, and accepted Carrot's thanks for turning out. He led her past the blanket-shrouded body of what Johanna was told had been a wizard in Trawler's employment who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She spared him a moment of silent compassion, thinking _how would I feel if that were Ponder there?_ And went into the warehouse.

One of Trawler's warehouse managers had been recalled and he was checking through sheafs of inventories. But, under the shielded and very carefully designed lighting, she saw an obvious gap in what would have been a well-filled shelf. She went over and cautiously examined a barrel. She took a sniff. She asked for a barrel to be opened.

"Egetean Clay." she said, crumbling some between her fingers. "It is generally used in the menufecture of glossy smooth paper. The sort the illustrated periodicals print fine-detailed iconogrephs on. Normal paper untreated with this clay does not hev the correct definition. I believe the _**Enkh-Morpork Times**_ buys very large quentities for its megezine erm."

Carrot nodded, politely. He noted her pale face and puffy red-rimmed eyes and wondered how long ago she had been crying. Angua could get that way sometimes.

"There is enother use for it, ceptain." she said. "I em essuming the people who stole et least two berrels of Egetean Clay do not intend to start a megazine-publishing business. Or you would not hev sent for me."

Carrot nodded.

"This is the purest end most refined kind. It hes a use in exothermic elchemy. Ceptain, whet else wes taken?"

"We don't know yet, miss." He said, honestly. "It's a very big warehouse and some of the things it sells are quite small. You might not see any obvious gaps on the shelves."

Johanna nodded. She gave Carrot a very serious look.

"We both hev suspicious minds, Ceptain. Let me make, perhaps, an intelligent guess es to whet else might be missing. Sweet spirits of nitre. Check the stock levels. I would elso look for missing glycerine. Perheps, es while we try to keep some things a secret, they inevitebly leak out, _toluene._ Toluene, or _toluol_ , or _methylbenzin_ , is a mono-substituted benzene derivative…"

She saw the politely blank look on Carrot's face. She adjusted her delivery to suit his comprehension.

"It is a colourless liquid resembling water but heavier end oilier. It hes a smell reminiscent of paint thinners or turpentine. Normelly kept in a brown gless jar, es it degrades in direct light."

She explained to Carrot how sweet spirits of nitre could, _very carefully_ , be reacted with glycerine to produce an unstable but highly explosive alchemical compound. The Agateans knew another secret: how Agatean Clay, both porous and capable of accepting additives, could be used as a highly stable carrier for the explosive liquid. In the hands of a skilled person, the new clay, now Agatean Fireclay with its hidden load of explosive, could be kneaded, shaped, moulded and subjected to all sorts of mistreatment and remain stable. But mould it around a central fuse, a length of wick, and you then had the second-deadliest candle on Disc.

"And… what's the _deadliest_ candle, Johanna?" Carrot asked.

She told him. It had originally been a top secret. Joint work by the Artificiers and the Assassins had developed tri-nitro toluene. _Making_ it was as simple as… anyway, it had twenty times the explosive yield as the related nitroglycerine and was even more unstable. Until mixed into Agatean Clay.

"There are other explosives." Johanna said. "We need to setisfy ourselves as to whether they have decided on this simple route, or are elchemically skilled enough to pursue other evenues. I will furnish you with a list of whet to check for. If these turn out to be the only things missing, we will know for sure whet devices they are plenning. I cen then brief our people eccordingly."

Carrot took a long time before answering.

"So these things are highly unstable."

"Et first, yes."

"So there is a chance they could blow themselves up when preparing them?"

"In unskilled hends, there is _elways_ thet possibility."

Carrot nodded. She continued.

"But they will inevitably take half the street with them. It will leave a big hole in the ground."

Carrot winced. Johanna patted his arm consolingly.

"There _is_ a wey to identify somebody who hes been working with these explosives…" she said.

* * *

Preet du Plessis was satisfied with the work done by his fellow fugitive Benckel. Benckel had been in the Engineering Corps in the Army and had an unblemished service record. Until he had the epiphany concerning field demolition charges, normally used for opening up military roads or reducing enemy defences. He had reasoned that they'd be equally efficacious when applied to bank vaults and strongrooms.

This had led him first to the military prison, where he'd met duPlessis for the first time, and then to Gogga Island, the offshore maximum security jail where he'd met duPlessis for the _second_ time. Skilled in making explosive devices, his talents were now being utilised in synthesising _care packages_ **(13)** for other people on the gang's deathlist.

"Not bad." DuPlessis said, surveying the alchemical gear that was smoking and bubbling and doing nameless things in the isolated shed near the gang's new hideout. They had switched locations as it had been felt the Watch was getting too close. Especially after taking care of that Thief.

"Lots of juice coming out of these guavas." he added. Du Plessis was very carefully standing in the doorway without entering the shed.

"Got to take care, though." Benckel remarked. "Bloody stuff turns your skin yellow."

"Better wear gloves, then." Du Plessis rasped.

* * *

Johanna had left them with a list of things to check for, and then excused herself to go home.

Now free to consider other hitherto disregarded aspects of this case, Carrot Ironfoundersson stopped, dead still.

"Why did nobody _tell_ me the dead wizard looks like…."

Cogs were turning in his mind. It explained why the troll had been stunned and not killed. Thieves generally didn't _kill_. The Assassins didn't like that, for one thing. But why kill the wizard when you could just stun him? And deliberately too, with two crossbow bolts…

"Identified as an Anthony Theopracticus, sir. But you really _could_ mistake the poor sod for Professor Stibbons. In this light." Fittley remarked. "Who'd want to kill him? Apart from other wizards, I mean. Nice guy."

"Apart from four Howondalandian renegades with a grudge?" Carrot said. He reached into a pouch for folded iconographs and descriptions.

 _Apparently one of them served as a military engineer. Don't they use explosives?_

He decided to alert Mr Vimes.

* * *

 **(1** ) _**Arrange your workplace so that there are**_ _ **no**_ _ **uncontrolled random explosions.**_ Controlled and precisely timed explosions under strict operating procedures were different, however.

 **(2** ) Runecaster Way is in a part of the Ankh side of the city, near to the river, that in the days of _**The Colour of Magic**_ was known as " _The Alchemists' Quarter"_. As readers of that book will know, loud bangs and pretty sparkling fires were not unknown then, either. The area is now what would be categorised as "a light industrial estate" serving the alchemical and wizardickal professions – "light industry" meaning no loud noises, no earthy-swearing sons of toil and no especially bad smells, the sort of more upwardly mobile _professional_ labour thought fit for the City of Ankh.

 **(3** ) Irena and Olga had paid careful thought to a throwaway remark by Nanny Ogg, who had loafed over to the blacksmiths to watch her son Jason shoeing a very strange horse indeed. After one of _those_ little incidents involving a Pegasus stallion and one of Hobley's mares in a field near Bad Ass, the girls had realised that they didn't need to get a troll to punch Yuri the Medusa in the face to create a Pegasus. A Pegasus stallion and a normal mare would do the job just as well, and spare Yuri. It didn't take _every_ time, but every birth of a true Pegasus foal was something to rejoice over. Hobley rejoiced most of all: the City paid him a bounty in dollars for every useful foal. And the apparently _yennork_ foals born without wings could well carry the gene for Pegasus wings. You never knew. Lancre was thus the only other nation on the disc with Pegasus technology: King Verence owned one as a gift from Ankh-Morpork. Princess Esmerelda Note Spelling had been clamouring for a pony, after all..

 **(4)** Zulus brewed a dark thin beer that was deceptively strong. But they weren't unaverse to the odd _laager_. Sorry. Bad pun there _. Laager_ means "encampment, place to park up and alight from one's wagon, by extension a homestead". A word picked up in South Africa, and still used by the British armed forces to denote a defended encampment, in the sense of "the armour is parked up in a tank-laager"

 **(5)** Several would leak, and end up gracing the " _Chicks With Crossbows_ " illustrated supplement in _**Bows And Ammo**_.

 **(6)** The shrewd old president was quite taken by her. She reassured him Rimwards Howondaland, for all its obvious inanities, must be doing _something_ right to produce women like this. As a man long past seventy, she was reassurance that his nation would survive and thrive.

 **(7)** But you've read _**The Discworld Tarot**_ and _**Whys and Weres**_ and you know this about Gillian, right?

 **(8** ) Agatean White. (lead). Ubu Yellow (Arsenic). Cobalt Blue. Vermilion, for which the mercury salt cinnabar is a _most excellent_ pigment. Gillian reckoned these primary colours plus a decent black were a good foundation for a student pallete. Other interesting shades, like Prussic Green, could be added later by repeat offenders.

 **(9** ) Closely followed by _Watch unable to apprehend suspects and lose them in pursuit. Vimes summoned to speak to Vetinari._ In smaller type.

 **(10)** The letters **Þ** and **ð** have been described as the Tubso and Bissonomy of the alphabet. Strictly speaking they have to be there for completion as they were once fully-fledged members of the alphabet, but nobody can remember how to pronounce them or indeed what they're for.

 **(11)** This is not exaggerated for comic intent. Not _at all_. Oh no. Seen it.

 **(12)** There's a story about this too. _**No More time for These Trousers.**_

 **(13)** Because getting one of these really takes care of people. A South African joke.


	9. Bombs, babies, and draft-dodging

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. Getting better, despite appalling hospital food. Finding it difficult to get back into this – sorry for late and sporadic continuation!**_

 _The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy._

Julian Smith-Rhodes found himself occupied in the aftermath of the attack. Dozens of greater and lesser tasks were fighting for his attention, not the least of which was fulfilling the security duties expected of him, with almost half his original manpower not available. There were other things, too: several of the dedicated dog-handlers had been among the dead and wounded. There was the practical problem of what to do for their dogs. Ridgebacks were large intimidating creatures and the ones at the embassy had been paired to dedicated handlers from puppyhood. The orphaned dogs were not taking kindly to change and loss. Sergeant de Kock was trying to sort it out, but as both he and Julian knew, the Ridgebacks here were not the friendly domesticated pets his cousin Johanna kept. They were trained and dedicated attack dogs that needed careful handling. A Ridgeback without its dedicated keeper was like an unguided missile, unpredictable and deadly dangerous. But they still needed feeding and exercise.

He exhaled. He decided he was reporting back to Home that there needed to be changes in the training and operating philosophy regarding guard dogs, which took account of the loss of the primary keeper: _definitely_ get them socialised to more than one handler as an insurance policy. Julian shook his head. He considered putting down the dogs whose handlers had been killed. It might be for the best all round, although his soul revolted at the idea.

He had sworn in seven black servants as Auxiliary soldiers. All had previous experience, and six were from the province of Smith-Rhodesia. Lady Friejda had been appalled at the idea of armed blacks patrolling the embassy. It had taken all Julian's powers of diplomacy and persuasion to get her to accept the notion, sure as she was that They Will Rise Up And Slaughter Us In Our Beds.

Julian had resorted to a history lesson to assuage her nerves. He had pointed out that when his ancestor, Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes, had led his expedition to push the borders of the country further Hubwards, some eighty per cent of the expeditionary army he had led was black or coloured. All those black soldiers had sworn loyalty not so much to Rimwards Howondaland, as to the Smith-Rhodes family. And generations of blacks from Smith-Rhodesia, the family province, had been loyal since. Especially when they were officered by members of the Smith-Rhodes family, who were known to be good _baases,_ and _baas-ladies_ too, if it came to that. Julian reminded her that those seven men had sworn loyalty to _himself_ , Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes, and he therefore had every confidence in them. As he should.

And there was a steady stream of callers at the Embassy, ostensibly there to sign the condolence book and express shock and sympathy. Many were from other diplomatic missions in the City or else were City notables. This made more work for Julian and his over-stretched security detail. He accepted the Zulu Empire's ambassador was in several covert and deniable ways well-disposed to Mr van der Graaf, and was genuinely shocked at the assassination attempt. And that some surprising friendships existed among members of a diplomatic community which was in a strange city far from home. He, Julian, should _know_.

But you _still_ didn't want representatives of your nation's oldest enemy walking around your embassy, unescorted and unaccounted for. Offering condolences was a nice excuse to get people in for a covert look round. Julian knew he wouldn't pass up a valid reason to explore inside _their_ Embassy.

He counted the numbers again. Ambassador Canaan Banana N'Vectif, a Princess of the Paramount House, and an escort party of six, as tightly marshalled as hospitality allowed. The Ambassador's personal guard had been allowed shields and assegais.

"Formal dress, Captain Smith-Rhodes." the Zulu Ambassador had said at the gate. "It is unthinkable for a warrior not to carry his birthright weapons."

Julian and two guardsmen wore machetes and carried slung crossbows.

"You never know if _an enemy_ might strike again, your Excellency". Julian had said, smoothly, registering that the Ambassador knew exactly who he was without needing to ask. "Our weapons are merely a precaution and for legitimate self-defence only."

Understanding each other's point of view, the Zulu delegation had been allowed access. It helped that the Paramount Crown Princess was present, supporting her uncle, the ambassador. She looked at Julian with cool regal detachment. Julian returned the formality. As they crossed the front gardens, Julian described the attack and ensuing battle to his guests. The Zulu ambassador considered this. The Princess kept her face deliberately unreadable.

He turned away and considered the detachment of Zulu soldiers escorting the Ambassador and the Princess. There was something about one man who was trying to look inconspicuous. He wore no signs of rank, but Julian was damned if that was a common footsoldier. He was older than the rest, and the others didn't seem to be relating to him as if he was one of their own. He stored this up for consideration later, as he listened, following the Ambassador's speech with concentrated focus, catching the gist of the _isiZulu_ language. His understanding of the language had certainly improved from a knowledge-base of pretty near zero, as his language teacher had remarked, with some personal satisfaction. Julian restrained a warm smile. It really hadn't been too difficult. Ruth's teaching had been _very_ relaxed and informal. Certainly idiosyncratic…

He watched his own men jump nervously as the Zulus turned to face them. The older warrior began a chant. His men followed with a response, adding emphatic foot-stomping and beating spears on shields. He noted one of his men reaching towards his crossbow.

"As you were, Private Aaslendt!" he said, quickly. He didn't want an Incident.

"They're _praising_ you. Warriors to warriors. Acknowledging your bravery in combat. It's a compliment. The Ambassador is explaining to them about the fight."

He glanced over. The Chargé d'Affairs, as acting Ambassador, and Lady Friejda, were approaching. Her Ladyship didn't seem too much at ease at the sight of a small detachment of the blood-enemy of the White Howondalandians, armed and inside her Embassy, and waving spears in what looked like a threatening way.

The Ambassador walked forward, extending a hand.

"Ah. Richard! And may I take a moment to extend my deepest sympathies to you, Lady Friejda?"

He walked forward accompanied by the Paramount Crown Princess and made his introduction in the Central Continent way, with handshakes and a kiss over the hand. It helped, Julian thought, that the Zulu Ambassador was in a formal dress suit in the local style and his voice was educated Ankh-Morporkian. He vaguely recalled that the old Paramount King had sent three sons to places like Hugglestones' Academy to get a good education. _One to graduate and two others as reserves, in case Hugglestones did for any of them. Zulu kings can usually afford to lose a few sons to combat attrition in difficult places. These days, they get to send them to the Assassins' School, too…_ He considered the Princess for a moment. He added, to himself, _…and their carefully selected daughters, in these more relaxed days._

Julian called his men to attention, and made a point of presenting arms in salute to the undeclared Zulu officer, drawing and presenting his sword. The Zulu responded with a warrior salute with clenched fist over heart. Then both officers returned their weapons to rest, salutations over.

"Come inside, Excellency. The condolence book is open in the salon."

"I would be honoured, Richard. Afterwards, is there anywhere we may talk privately?"

The mixed party entered the Embassy. Julian's soldiers fell in behind the Zulu party.

 _Just another day in the diplomatic service…_

* * *

"I see." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said, assimilating the new information with a look that was outwardly calm. Captain Carrot had intruded on breakfast at Spa Lane to break the news about the previous night's murder at Trawler's Alchemickal Supplies and what it was likely to mean. She poured two cups of _rooibos_ tea with a steady hand and offered one to Carrot.

"It is best without milk." she said. "Although you may edd sugar or honey to taste. I find it relexing in moments like this."

Carrot accepted the cup with thanks and savoured the oddly different taste. Definitely tea, but with an edge of vanilla and other strangely different but not unpleasant sub-notes. Watchmen tended never to refuse offered tea, even from Assassins, but stuck with what they knew best: over-stewed builder's tea with five sugars, preferably from an urn that was a stranger to regular cleaning, the sort the military described as having an effect like a barrage with siege weapons.

Ponder Stibbons looked on, feeling a sense of gloom and despondency. She took his hand reflexively without looking at him.

"So this poor wizard was murdered. He hes enough of a resemblance to Ponder for people to remark on it. In the twilight he was mistaken for Ponder and shot down."

Ponder Stibbons nodded soberly. Mustrum Ridcully would not be pleased to hear about Anthony Theopracticus. He, Ponder, would have to deal with that later. It was not a cheerful thing to look forward to at breakfast. Johanna left the table. Claude the butler was waiting with her weapons belt, one of the new maternity wear versions devised by Joyce Tanner. He held it out to her as if it were a coat or a stole, as she buckled it on.

She unsheathed her machete. Enamelled black, the blade glittered silver in the light, where the black had unavoidably been cleaned off the edge, exposing the metal beneath. Johanna contemplated her blade for a second or two.

"Somebody committed a murder lest night, in the belief they hed killed my husband." she said. It looked for a second as if she was talking directly to the blade. "Thet makes it _personal._ "

Captain Carrot took in the spectacle of a seven-months pregnant woman holding a very big blade in a manner that displayed to the world that she knew exactly what to do with it. And had been given every provocation to do something with it in defence of her husband and child. It was not, he reflected, a sight designed to give ease.

"I understand there is a Guild contract out." he said. "Which makes it _legal_." Quickly, he added what was important, to remind her. "But it pays out more if you bring the person in alive?"

" _Ja."_ Johanna said, resheathing the blade. "But _elive_ is not _mendatory_."

"Johanna, you can't go out on a Guild contract…" Ponder began. Then he looked her in the face and his voice tailed off. "Or maybe you can." he mumbled.

"I know, Ponder." she said, gently. She patted her bulge. "This is not ideal. I know. But how cen we cerry on living a normal life when these people are out to kill us? Better we settle this _now._ Get in first. I em not living with this eny more."

Carrot Ironfoundersson, his face betraying only slight alarm, finished his tea.

"Your escort to work should be arriving soon." he said. He would, he decided, alert Mr Vimes. Johanna was now annoyed enough to want to do something about it herself, despite her condition. Even though it would count as legal, this was a complication the Watch should know about. Sam Vimes did not like to be surprised.

" _Ja."_ she said. "End I know whet I need to do. It is possible a lot of explosive devices will be plented eround the city this morning. I need to mobilise everyone I have who is cepeble of defusing bombs. Please inform Mr Vimes we are et his service. He will need us."

* * *

Enjoying the luxury of a morning off from Watch service, Sergeant Precious Jolson got up early to spend her day doing non-Watch things. She made her way down to the service yard behind her father's restaurant and assisted in off-loading delivery carts. It was pleasant exercise, and something she'd been doing ever since she was six, when she'd discovered she could lift a fifty-pound sack of potatoes with one hand. It also left her feeling she was contributing something of worth to the family business.

She exchanged cheerful banter with the early kitchen staff who were assisting, and noted only a few barrels of miscellaneous items remained. Load up the cart with returned empties, sign off the delivery note, and that was it.

The cart driver smiled a contended smile. It was usually a big delivery to Jolson's, but the upside of it was that you didn't hang around too long if young Precious was helping to unload.

"Just these barrels now, miss." He said, rolling them down the cart to her. She caught the first one-handed and tucked it under her arm. A second one followed. She caught it, stumbled for a second, and frowned.

"Caught me by surprise there." she said. "This one weighs lighter than the other. I was expecting it to be just as heavy."

"Shouldn't do, miss." The carter replied. "The manifest says thirty-pound barrels of anchovies."

Precious weighed up the barrels, curious. The one in her right hand felt a few pounds lighter. The weight distribution felt wrong, the centre of gravity was out.

"We normally only order four barrels of anchovies." she said. "Looks like there's five there?"

"They're all labelled for Jolson's, miss." The carter said. "Let me check the manifest…"

His brow furrowed in thought.

"Only reads as four, miss. Despatch must have coc… _male chickened…_ things up again?"

Precious tested the weights on the barrels. Four felt right, for thirty pounds of fish. But the fifth? Watchwoman's suspicion flared up in her mind. She'd heard about the Trawlers raid, when Lance-Constable Fitch had dropped by for a late sandwich, and speculation about what the stolen goods were to be used for.

She picked up the lighter barrel again. It was certainly labelled for Jolsons. But… she compared this to the despatch labels on the others. This had different handwriting on it.

Precious noted how close they were to her beloved aviaries, which occupied a good third of the yard behind her father's restaurant. In there, the breakfast shift was in full swing and almost every table was occupied. She also knew she couldn't go spreading panic on a mere suspicion. But something had to be done…

"Reg, Jack. Grab hold of sacks. Flour, potatoes, anything. Just so long as they're full." she said, vaguely remembering about how the Assassins' Guild dealt with dangerous explosives. "Follow me out. Quickly. Don't ask questions." she said. "And send a runner to the Yard. Possible emergency. Get somebody here."

* * *

Emmanuelle, Comptesse de Lapoignard, accepted the offered chair with thanks. Her own advanced pregnancy now meant it was pretty much impossible to practically demonstrate most forms of sword and bladed weapons technique. She accepted this philosophically. With luck, an accelerated fitness programme, starting the very second she could hand the child over to a nanny, would restore her to her full vigour and agility. She hoped so. She was also relieved that, via intermediaries, plans to buy the Spa Lane property were well advanced and she was now waiting only for the current tenants to move on. Then contracts could be exchanged and she could get the house set up exactly to her needs. Antoinette was now doing more and more of the routine management of Black Widow House, and had effectively moved in to the Housemistress apartment: Emmanuelle had moved to one of the city's _better_ hotels, for which her deceased mother-in-law was paying all the bills.

She smiled. She had heard of one of Leonard of Quirm's scientifick speculations, that a rotating body spinning within a metal casing could be harnessed to produce some sort of energy akin to directed magnetism. Leonard had speculated that this energy could be used for beneficial purposes, like powering streetlights. The very clever Ponder Stibbons had reflected on this and said he'd seen something similar on the Roundworld, in a place called California. So no reason why not, but it would need a lot of expensive and hard-to-set-up infrastructure. Emmanuelle idly wondered how much of Quirm could be lit up at night by her mother-in-law spinning in her grave. She smiled again.

Today, the lesson was knife-throwing. It wasn't one of Emmanuelle's specialities, but in normal circumstances she was proficient enough, and it came within her remit as a Bladed Weapon Skill. She was therefore happy enough to have crossed the City with her class to take advantage of the new Knife Throwing Ranges at the Thieves' Guild School, on Upper Broadway. Some skills were common to both Guilds, and where this was the case they traded staff and facilities for mutual benefit. Emmanuelle relaxed and watched, appreciatively, as Herr Brumbach, the Thieves' Guild's principal teacher in knife skills, led his mixed class in the tricky skill of throwing confidently and accurately. He was aided by several Teaching Assistants drawn from both Guilds.

"At tventy yards, a Number One Throwing Knife vill make _one_ full revolution in the air betveen your hand and zer target." he directed. "Therefore, it _vill_ impact zer target point-first. But if you read zer range inaccurately, and zen compound zer error by selecting a Number Three Throwing Knife, vhich is smaller und lighter, at tventy yards it will strike handle-first. This may _stun_ zer target, vhich is good, but it is not the result you are looking for. It is also embarrassing to vatch your knife _bounce off._ This does not display professionalism. It also, my young Assassin friends, betrays _over-confidence_."

The wiry little Überwaldean beamed happily.

"Now who vishes to be first? Vun of zer _mädchen_?"

He beckoned a girl forward. Emmanuelle smiled slightly to herself, recognising Rivka bin-Devorah. She watched, attentively, with a contented satisfaction, as Rivka, intently focused on what she was doing, perforated a human-shaped target with four knives in the chest and one in the neck. Even Herr Brumbach nodded in praise.

"I can see we have a natural talent here." he said. "Perhaps more advanced training for you, _junge._ Another young lady to the oche, _bitte_?"

The next student was Mariella Smith-Rhodes, who listened intently to Herr Brumbach's words of advice, then went for the safe body shots: three in the stomach, one in the chest. A fifth fell low and shuddered to a halt in the target's groin area. The handle twanged to a stop, pointing slightly upwards. Several male pupils from both Schools went "Ooooh…" in low voices. **(1)** The girls giggled, even snickered.

Herr Brumbach turned to Emmanuelle.

"Countess, you are bringing me people who need little training at this level? This is another young lady for a more advanced class."

"They are two very able students at this discipline." Emmanuelle said, proud of Rivka and Mariella. "With some of the others, you will gain a more accurate view of the general level of talent, and the need for expert training."

Emmanuelle was experienced as a teacher. She would not have brought a representative cross-selection of Assassin students out to train under the eyes of a rival school, in their premises, without taking the precaution of including a few exceptional talents she could quietly boast about. The Thieves, hearing of the Assassins' School being caught out by a pregnancy epidemic, had asked if there was anything they could do to help cover the anticipated staffing gaps. After all, it happened to their teaching staff too, and one day _they_ might need cover. Lord Downey had gratefully accepted, but had pointed out privately that it would be advantageous to show them some of our _very best_ pupils. Alice Band, too, was peppering Edificeering classes sent to the Thieves' Guild with some of her best people. Although Alice was not even remotely pregnant, she had pointed out that covering a proportion of Emmanuelle's active Swords classes and supervising a share of Johanna's more physical teaching meant she was thinly stretched, and everybody knew the Thieves were good teachers of a common skill. If Steffi Gibbet could assist here, she'd be grateful.

Brought down to earth again by a succession of less able pupils, Emmanuelle sighed at her uncharacteristic lack of foresight, which she blamed on her pregnancy clouding her mind. If only she'd presented the clumsier ones _before_ Rivka. That way she might innocently have suggested a little side-bet with Herr Brumbach, my pupils against his, just to make it interesting for all?

She sighed, philosophically, noting that some of the student Thieves were equally maladroit with throwing knives. _Ambisinistral, even._

And then the building rocked from a distant explosion. Herr Brumbach raised an eyebrow.

"Wizards, or the verdammte Alchemists, do you think, Madame Comptesse?" he asked, politely.

"My money would be on the Alchemists." Emmanuelle replied. "Nine times out of ten, it is the Alchemists."

A distant handbell began ringing. Herr Brumbach called for order and explained that the fire alarm was ringing. There was now a need to evacuate the building, please assemble by class on Upper Broadway, _do not rush!_

Emmanuelle sighed again, and gathered her pupils. She whispered in one ear to put that throwing knife back where you found it, _nom d'un branleur,_ **(2)** what do you think you are doing, thinking to steal from the Thieves? She shook her head. There were always opportunists.

* * *

The Watch were quick in responding to the call to Jolson's. They found Precious had moved the suspect barrel to a back alley a block or so away, nearer the River, and was supervising Jolsons' staff in building a barricade around it, improvised from sacks of flour, potatoes and other vegetables.

Watchmen always responded quickly to one of their own in trouble, and she was pleased to see Fred Colon was in charge.

"If it's what I think it is, Fred, we need to evacuate the area." she said.

Colon nodded sagely.

"One of them exothermic alchemy devices, you think, Precious?" he asked, carefully retreating from it. The barrel had been placed near a sturdy brick wall and a semi-circle of produce bags was building up around it.

"I've got a strong suspicion." she said. "I don't want it going off anywhere near my birds."

She hastily added

"Or blowing up Dad's business. That's why I brought it down here. Strong brick wall behind, and I saw the Assassins dealing with something like this. They build a barricade round it too. To absorb the blast. You know, direct it upwards."

Fred looked down doubtfully at the makeshift sangar.

"Yes, miss. But, errr, Miss Smith-Rhodes usually has her people use _sandbags_. I seen her do it once."

"Shouldn't make _too_ much of a difference." Precious said, annoyed she'd missed the obvious. Down near the river, everybody had access to sandbags, which held back the ooze of a periodically over-crawling Ankh. **(3)**

"Better get sandbags up, miss. Save your men lugging those big sacks. Faster, too. I'll get people to knock on doors and evacuate. See if we can get a Guild squad here to check it out."

Fred decided to put as much distance between himself and a potential explosion as possible, and went to organise a squad to knock on doors, not _you_ , Visit, we want people to _open_ them.

Precious sighed, accepting Fred was doing the sort of police work he was best suited for, and smiled at Reg and Jack, who were hand-trucking more big sacks over from Jolson's.

"Change of plan, boys." she said.

* * *

Johanna put the word out for students and graduate Assassins who'd done her Exothermic Alchemy course to assemble as a matter of some priority. Then she told Lord Downey what she was doing and why.

Downey agreed, giving her the politely-worded order not to put her own life at undue risk. She recognised it was as near as Downey got to an absolute command, and spent the next hour explaining to her people, as they arrived, about the situation, commandeering a classroom to describe the most common "care packages" assembled by people from her country who had the required trade skills. She sketched diagrams of typical construction, triggers and safeguards as she worked, emphasising that it was most probable any bombs they encountered would look like this.

They did not need to wait very long for the first call.

* * *

Julian Smith-Rhodes appreciated the rather surrealistic sight of a group of Zulu warriors, their assegais and shields for now stacked against a wall in an Embassy receiving room, eating delicate snack food from paper plates. Several of the embassy's black servants moved amongst them with reluctance and veiled hostility. Julian reflected that the black population of White Howondaland largely composed itself of tribes like the Xhosa and the Bantu, who, after a millennium of tribal snarling and hostility, _really_ hated the Zulus. Ruth had confessed to him that it hadn't really helped that her people "could get full of themselves" and expected to be seen as the dominant tribe in Howondaland. "Which we _are_ , of course, but some of the smaller tribes don't like that very much."

He studied the Paramount Crown Princess. She'd sharply rebuked one Zulu footsoldier who had made some sort of disparaging remark to a black servant. He had reddened – well, _darkened_ – and meekly accepted criticism from Her Royal Highness, may I be forgiven for disturbing the peace of the Paramount House.

She looked over to him, coolly. Even regally.

"Captain Smith-Rhodes." she said. "Perhaps you could be so kind as to direct me to a ladies' room? I understand no member of this party is to be left unattended in this Embassy. I would trust you to lead me to the correct place, and wait outside to escort me back to this reception."

Julian bowed.

"I would be honoured, Your Royal Highness." He said. "Please walk with me?"

The Zulu officer made as if to accompany. She shook her head and directed him back. He caught the gist of her words: "I trust the white Boor _indunala._ He is a man of character. I will be safe."

Julian deliberately took her a long way around. They walked in silence until they'd turned several corners. Then the Princess said, in a low voice,

"Julian Smith-Rhodes. You _do_ know I'm hanging onto diplomatic protocol by a rapidly fraying thread here? That after the other day, I am so unspeakably utterly glad you are still alive, that I want to throw you up against a wall and stick my tongue down your throat?"

"Hold that thought, Your Royal Highness." Julian said. "I believe this would be suitable for you."

It was a ladies' toilet, with VIR GEBRUIK DEUR BLANKES prominently displayed on the door. Ruth exhaled loudly.

"Only for white people." she translated. "So am I going to be dragged out and shot halfway through?"

"I think it'll be alright." Julian said, poker-faced. "According to protocol, you currently class as honorary white."

"Remind me to thump you when we next meet." she grumbled, letting herself in.

He smiled, and waited, a respectable distance away, on the corridor side of the door, for her return.

* * *

Moist von Lipwig smoothly reassured Miss Iodine Maccalariat that everything was under control. Even though he'd been up since far-too-early, when the advisory clacks from the City Watch had arrived, he found mornings like this, which deviated from the boring norm and presented a challenge, to have a certain savour to them.

"Yes, I am aware the building has been burnt down once, Miss Maccalariat. And I wholeheartedly agree with you that once is enough for that sort of thing. Which is why I am overseeing every possible precaution in this matter. But the Post must get through. Which is why I am trying to balance a need for security and safety with the even more pressing need to get deliveries out. The holding area is bulging as it is."

He indicated the double wall of sandbags that his Golem and Troll staff had erected in the yard. He sighed again. The warning from the Watch had been well-intended, certainly. But it didn't take a dedicated student of human nature to realise that an instruction like _please take all suspect packages out of the normal sorting process and isolate in a safe area for inspection later_ would result in just about everything larger than a letter ending up in limbo. They'd run out of firebuckets full of sand inside five minutes, for instance. Mr Groat had sent to all the local ironmongers for more, with golems tasked to paint them red and add the word "FIRE" on the outside in white as per Post Office Regulations, then there'd been another embarrassing hold-up as they'd run out of red and white paint and needed to send out for supplies, plus brushes, and then Groat had checked Regulations, and realised the wrong sort of sand was being used to fill them, so a search needed to be made of builders' merchants and contractors' yards….

Moist nodded to where the golem Tsuris was adding the word "Fire" to a red-painted bucket in a beautiful, craftsmanlike, but necessarily slow, decorative script with highlighting and shadow and lots of serifs. Tsuris had worked for a signwriter, prior to the Golem Trust buying his chem.

"I do concede that in the emergency, we just might have got some of our priorities confused, though."

Miss Maccalariat humphed an unconvinced dismissal, making it abundantly clear she was dismissing Moist, rather than vice-versa, and went back to her daily work.

Moist reflected that to a certain mind, everything passing through the Post Office could be described as "a suspect package". This was Ankh-Morpork, after all. Apart from the odd Watch investigation, nobody had ever really been bothered about the legality or the morality of what was inside the mail. You just moved it. And now, with the warning some letters and parcels might have highly explosive bombs in them, people were having to differentiate, _really, really, quickly._ Just about everything was ending up in the sandbagged holding area. Red buckets were overflowing with items. His eyes boggled at the sight of a very large parcel, balanced on one corner in the top of an absurdly small bucket. He shook his head and went to investigate the label. The parcel weighed light for its size.

"I think we can safely disconsider this one." Moist said to a passing postman. He lifted it by one finger from its string.

"Agatean Fireclay is a bit heavier than this, wouldn't you think? Besides, the contents label claims that there are three pounds of prime goose feathers in this box, and the destination is _Nibley and Parker's Traditional Writing Implements, Bespoke Quills A Speciality_ , on Mormius Street. So, when all things are taken into consideration, possibly _not_ a bomb, don't you think?"

Moist rested the parcel again. He'd carefully not shown it in his face, but even three pounds dangling from your little finger can hurt, after a while.

"Come on, let's check a few more out. Applied common sense, I think." he said, cheerfully, entering the Holding Area.

And then everything stopped as they heard the explosion. It sounded nearby, possibly a street or two away.

* * *

Heidi van Kruger settled in to her position as Deputy Zoo Director (Acting) and prepared to tackle the daily mail. She was aware she was only keeping the seat warm and deputising for Johanna, who was, albeit unwillingly, scaling down her commitments as The Day drew nearer. Besides, even Johanna had been forced to acknowledge that some of the more physical aspects of managing the Zoo were temporarily outside her ability. She couldn't, for instance, easily out-run any hypothetical charging lions right at this very moment.

Heidi, as one of the more skilled and talented young graduates trained by Johanna Smith-Rhodes, had stepped into the breach to cover. She smiled, happy for the continuing reason to remain in Ankh-Morpork. There was still the danger that if she returned home for any length of time, she'd be visited by some very serious people from the Bureau of State Security, who would take care to point out she hadn't completed her National Service obligation to her country. As one who had benefited from an Assassins' Guild education paid for by the Staadt, it was now time for her to sign the papers and accept enlistment into the Bureau, for a period of not less than two years. In deference to your education and skills, we will of course accelerate you to the rank of Captain.

Even though it had been strongly suggested by the Staadtspresident himself that her presence in the Battle of the Tobacco Fields should be taken as service to her nation that at least equalled a full term of National Service, and the Bureau of Defence had cautiously agreed this was so, she knew BOSS still wanted her. Not even the President had complete control over BOSS. So she remained in Ankh-Morpork, industriously dodging the draft as creatively as she could.

She tackled the mail, reflecting that she _could_ get married and pregnant. Married women were excused national service. And having white children for the future of the Staadt was seen as National Service in its own right. Her country thought like that, she reflected. Rimwards Howondaland was a very socially conservative nation. And marriage meant a Boor husband. Horizons shrinking to kitchen, home and children. She shuddered. Johanna Smith-Rhodes had seen this trap too, shortly after her arrival in Ankh-Morpork. No wonder she'd stayed.

Heidi dealt with routine mail addressed to the Zoo Director. Requests from excited children for more information on the more interesting animals. The Campaign for Equal Heights imperiously asking about progress on acquiring Dwarf Elephants. An official letter from the High Commission of the Foggy Islands, concerning the recent acquisition of the rare Kakapo birds and asking for ongoing briefings into the Zoo's conservation and breeding programme. for A semi-literate thank-you note from a family who'd witnessed a keeper being savaged by a wolverine, enthusing on the quality of entertainment provided by the Zoo and how it had really enthralled the kids, really worth the entrance money…

She frowned. Johanna had insisted she covered the mail and read every item. She had a feeling this was part of her ongoing education from her former teacher.

There were two larger and fatter envelopes, small parcels, really, addressed to herself and to Johanna. She frowned.

 _Liutnant_ H. van Kruger? _Kolonel_ J.F. Smith-Rhodes? Using their military ranks, and in Vondalaans? Nobody used them here. The Staadt had promoted Johanna to colonel of the Army Reserve for her leadership, yes. And Heidi had been given honorary Lieutenant's rank for her part, on the proviso that one day she should go back and, of her own free will, of course, complete a little officer training. **(4)** Heidi had seen the little problem with this open-ended arrangement straight away. She suspected the training might last up to two years.

She carefully manipulated a parcel. Felt full. Nothing rattling. Same handwriting on both. The little detail with the spelling suggested a _Vondalaans_ -speaker had written the address labels. There was even a little sticker from the Post Office to say the postage, in local Ankh-Morporkian stamps, was deficient by eightpence on both. The Cash Office had probably paid the deficiency to the postman.

Heidi considered, and called for a golem. She'd never seen a BOSS "care package" before. But everyone in Rimwards Howondaland had a friend of a friend who had, and things in the mail were known to go "bang" every so often. And she was a trained Assassin. Some things made her senses twang. _Since I do not want to join them, they are returning the compliment? But why should Johanna get one too?_

-You Called For Me, Miss Van Kruger?

"Mr Bubkis. Please carefully take these two parcels. Do not open them. Place them in the top of a fire-bucket, part-filled with send. Move the bucket to a safe isolated place, end ensure nobody goes near. Cen you do this swiftly? Thenk you."

The golem did as he was ordered.

-You Suspect Danger, Miss Van Kruger?

" _Ja._ En explosive or incendiary device. Please move quickly. I suspect it will only explode when opened, but I do not know for sure. If there is a timing device in there, it could go at eny time."

The golem moved with more ponderous, deceptive, speed.

Heidi breathed out, and wrote short, emergency, messages to be clacksed to Watch and Guild. Then she decided to do something different, and went to look in on the kakapo birds. The concerned Embassy was asking, after all.

* * *

As the Thieves' Guild pupils and staff assembled in the courtyard and spilling out into Upper Broadway, Emmanuelle marshalled her class of guest Assassins and counted heads. She was pleased they were all here and none had absconded to wait it out in, for instance, Tarbuck's Coffee Shop. She noted panicked-looking people streaming away from the city centre and went to speak to anyone she could stop for long enough.

She heard confused stories about a bloody golem that had gone mad, ma'am, and tried to blow up the Palace, kill the Patrician. Not that them things ain't already mad, and not that people don't try to kill Vetinari every so often, but…

Variants on this tale were repeated by several others. Emmanuelle nodded, having gleaned that the common elements were a golem, which had been involved in an explosion, at the Patrician's Palace, which was close enough to the Thieves' Guild for the bang to be heard loudly and for the windows to rattle.

"Oh, _he'll_ get out alive, of course." her contact said. "Only man who could hide behind a corkscrew, know what I mean? Can I go now, miss… _ma'am_?"

Emmanuelle nearly smiled at the sudden recognition of her pregnancy bulge, and the courtesy re-appraisal of _miss_ to _ma'am_. Ankh-Morporkian etiquette took the distinction seriously in its pregnant women. And of course there was no need to clarify who the _he_ was. Vetinari, she fancied, would persuade an exploding bomb not to send any blast or fragments his way, and then walk out alive and uninjured. Quite possibly from behind a large corkscrew or a spiral staircase.

She sighed, recognising a certain itch, a pregnancy craving, perhaps. She'd have to go and see Scrote Jones soon. But even her principal lover had developed an abominable diffidence, a certain squeamishness. Faced with her visible pregnancy, he had gulped and asked if, you know, Emmie, this is _right_? In your condition, err, _you know?_ She sighed, Men had no problems with the mechanics of getting you pregnant. But show them the bulge, six months on, and they started making excuses and being gentlemanly about it. Which was most assuredly not what she wanted. _Pas de toute._ It was like Johanna feeling she had to give up alcohol for the duration. Emmanuelle did not approve of this hair-shirt mentality towards carrying a child. There had to be _some_ compensations, and she required a lover like Scrote Jones to provide them. The last time, Scrote's diffidence and reluctance had led to a plate-throwing row and floods of unaccountable tears. She wondered where all _that_ had come from. Emmanuelle was not normally one to weep and sob. She decided to ask Davinia Bellamy, the nearest thing she know to an expert on these matters.

She looked Hubwards towards the Palace. A thin plume of black smoke was still rising, but dying in the winter wind. No doubt they'd find out soon…

* * *

{{THUD}}

-Stone me, bro, you nearly carked it there!

-Bloody muntered it, if y'ask me!

{{THUD}}

-Derek! Give it heaps, eh?

{{THUD}}

-Looks like Bruce has had enough, he's goin' bush! Hard yakka, eh?

{{THUD}}

-Here comes Denise, takin' time off from sitting the old hen fruit!

{{THUD}}

Heidi grinned with appreciation.

The kakapo birds were from the Foggy Islands. Ornithological opinion was divided on them. Were they a bird species poised at the very moment in evolution where they were nudging each other, looking up, and gaining a dim appreciation of what these bloody wing things were for? "Hey, neat trick! Let's see if we can do that too!"

Or, were they a bird that had simply at some stage forgotten how to fly, now confined to the ground, but with a dim awareness something was missing from their avian lives, trying to remember?

Either way, the kakopo was like an avian lemming, which would climb into a high place and then fearlessly step out, sometimes even remembering to flap its wings. The result was usually a splat or a thud. But being a careful bird, it made sure the ground under its plummet was thickly cushioned with plants, leaves, mosses and soft debris. Some advanced members of the species even wove long rope-like tendrils of a particularly springy and somewhat elastic creeper together, tied them across their breasts, and after securing the other end to a convenient branch, leapt off, and bounced rather than thudded. Another kakapo at ground level would release them from where they now hung head-down, and the whole business would begin again… **(5)**

And being a member of the parrot family, they were superbly equipped to offer a running commentary and squawk encouragement to each other.

Experimentation of this sort was not a good survival trait, and predatory mammals could count on a good dinner of stunned kakapo, or else harvest one tied in a bungi creeper as it plummeted to a halt. This had led to rapid dwindling of the wild population in the Foggy Islands. The Ankh-Morpork City Zoo was therefore one of several institutions around the Discworld with a captive breeding population, hoping the species would thrive in an environment without predators.

Heidi could happily have watched them all morning. The species confirmed some of her suspicions about Foggy Islanders, for one thing. But her nostrils were telling her something was going wrong somewhere. She noticed a golem keeper leaving the Aviary with some haste. She followed. Outside the smell of smoke was more obvious. She followed the burning smell, and several rapidly converging Zoo golems, to the service road behind the Zoo which was closed to the public.

 _Kak! Johanna is going to go Librarian! And on my watch, too!_

The first thing she saw was the burning cart and a drover who was bouncing up and down in agitation.

"That's my _cart!_ That's my _livelihood_!"

"Ag, man!" she shouted. "You could et least try to unhitch the bleddy horses!"

Heidi ran to assist a group of student Assassins, she recalled ones having been tasked to assist in routine chores such as unloading deliveries, who were trying to calm and release the horses.

"Too late for that!" she shouted to a student who was trying to remove the tack by conventional means whilst avoiding flailing hooves. drawing her machete. "Chop the bleddy traces off!"

Ignoring the carter who was wailing that _all that tack costs money, miss, and who's going to pay for this?,_ Heidi leapt aside as a fear-maddened horse gratefully ran for safety. She had a glimpse of a golem catching and restraining. Feeling the fire on her face and arms, Heidi tossed a knife to one of the students. Together they cut loose the other horse, then retreated from the blaze. Golems were now industriously stamping out the fire, pulverising the cart in the process.

She took stock, pushing the useless little man out of her way. A student Assassin came out of the feed and bedding store, pitchforking a smouldering bale of hay onto the road. Golems began stamping it out. She relaxed. Maybe she could get away with reporting to Johanna that this was only a minor incident.

She turned to Senior Keeper Pontoon, one of the Zoo's human staff.

"Get a hosepipe. Get water in there. Men a pump." she ordered. She'd seen similar fires on Veldt settlements at Home. Your first thought was always for the animals. Without horses, without oxen, a Veldt farm was isolated and doomed. Heidi scanned the faces of the human and Dwarf workers who were dealing with the fire. _Anyone looking shifty? Who here smokes?_ She recalled a couple of the student Assassins had needed a stern talking-to about cigarettes. She remembered names and House affiliations. _Speak to Mr Mericet about Robertson. He's in Viper House. Got caught with a sly ciggie in the privies. Ag, they will try._

"End both those horses hev burns end scorching. Thet poor creature's tail, for instance. They require care. Whet salves end remedies do we hev? If necessary, contect Mr Folsom. Thenk you."

-We Were Unloading A Delivery Of Food And Bedding, Miss Van Kruger. It was the golem Shtetl, a long-time zookeeper.

-We Realised Something Was Wrong When The Load On The Cart Suddenly Burst Into Flame.

"Wes enybody _smoking_?" Heidi asked, her glare taking in Robertson of Viper House.

-No, Miss Van Kruger. The Blaze Was Spontaneous. It Began On The Cart. Young Mr Robertson Here Realised They Had Already Begun Moving Hay Bales Inside The Store. He Led The Other Students In Removing The Bales Already Unloaded, And Bringing Them Out Onto The Road. His Prompt Action Saved The Store.

Heidi nodded. She remembered the suspect packages in the mail. Was there more to this than just a careless cigarette butt?

One of the other golems was scrabbling in the ashes of a burnt-out hay bale. He picked something up, then brought it to Heidi. It took a little while for her to realise what she was looking at, then she cautiously lowered her nose to sniff. There was a familiar chemical odour behind the fire-smell. She recalled Exothermic Alchemy classes and **…(6)**

"Get thet in a sendbucket. Fest." she said. She added "Incendiary pipe bomb. Break open the other hay bales you were able to save, end search for those. Only golems ere to touch them. End _be careful_. These things will explode without warning end et a temperature thet melts iron. They leave nothing behind except esh end dust. Untraceable."

She winced. When would that bomb-disposal squad from the Guild get here? Now there was this _other_ complication…

* * *

The first urgent clacks messages reached Johanna Smith-Rhodes. She recognised one from the Zoo and winced. Were they attacking her there, at a place that was very special to her?

"Myers. Andrews. Burkerton-Foley. Get horses. Ride to the Zoo. Suspected parcel bombs, BOSS standerd, es I hev described. Go."

The three named Assassins ran for the door.

She read another clacks. She breathed in.

"City Wetch requires Guild essistence. Suspected device et All Jolson's restaurant. Speak to Sergeant Colon or Sergeant Jolson." She named three more Assassins and senior students.

Then she turned to the third.

"Priority one. Petricien's pelace…"

They heard the explosion even indoors. The Palace wasn't that far away, in fact, practically opposite the Assassins' Guild, at the top end of Filigree Street and across the Broadways.

Johanna let the sound die, and named three more people.

"I will ettend this one myself. I think it will be prudent. The rest of you, come with me. I will edvise the porters I am moving our base to the Pelace."

* * *

"Sti-BONNS!"

"Yes, sir?" Ponder Stibbons had head the distant explosion. It was nothing, next to Ridcully's bullish roar.

"All these dam' bangs going on. Can you reassure me it's nothing to do with us in any way at all?"

"I'll find out, sir. But I fear it's connected with the raid at Trawler's last night. Somebody's planting bombs. Johanna was right."

"Hmmmph. Same people who did for young Theopracticus?"

"Very probably, sir."

"So long as it's not us. And may those people be too near one of their own bombs when it blows. Poetic justice, lad."

"I'll go and find out, sir. The direction suggested something down towards the Isle of Dogs. City centre."

* * *

With nothing more to be done at the Thieves' School, Emmanuelle marshalled her party together for the walk back round to Filigree Street. Her curiosity had been piqued, and she wanted to see what had happened at the Palace for herself. She discovered large quantities of yellow-and-black tape was being deployed by the Watch, alongside crowd control barriers, and all traffic was being diverted down Widdershins Broadway.

Some discreet rubbernecking assured her the Palace was still there. But the gardens behind were now marked with a massive black burn-scar on the grass, like an irregular star, stretching for some forty yards in every direction. Absurdly, there was a tiny patch of grass in the centre that appeared to be wholly unaffected. She could see Sam Vimes in there, looking as if he was about to explode himself, and the unmistakeable figure of Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who was surveying the evidence and speaking to what looked like a coal-mining golem. The spare figure of Lord Vetinari was nearby, looking untroubled and impassive and very much alive, despite the evidence of some shrapnel-shattered trees, and a lot of broken windows on the Rim-facing side of the building. Watchmen, Assassins and Palace Guards were very much in evidence. Emmanuelle nodded to herself, having ascertained everything she wanted to know, and reflecting that Johanna really _couldn't_ stay away from trouble _. It may do her good. Something active to divert her energies._

* * *

The Palace golem, Mr Pump, had been stained black with residues from the bomb. They were distributed over his head, shoulders, back and chest, giving him the appearance of a coal-mining unit coming up from a deep shaft at the pit. She also noted his body had been scratched, gouged even, by shrapnel, but he was still in remarkably good shape, considering he had recognised a barrel-bomb and run out into the Palace gardens, holding it above his head, where it had exploded relatively harmlessly. Only the Palace gardeners would be grieved. An old lawn had been destroyed and the crater had obliterated several paths and walkways. She wondered if golems could be retrained to do bomb disposal. It was an interesting thought _. That's if I can get the idea past Adora Belle Dearheart,_ she thought _. I really do not want a fight with her._

"So, Mr Pump. You recognised it was a device. Mixed in with the morning deliveries. You took it to where it could do no herm?"

"That Is So, Doctor Smith-Rhodes."

The golem then answered the unasked question.

"The Feel And The Smell Were Wrong. It Is What We Call Poisoned Clay. We Are Made Of Clay. We Recognise When The Very Clay Is Tainted."

Johanna let the implication sink in.

"You can tell. Instently?"

"We Have Lived Long. We Know Many Things. Golems In Agatea Passed Their Knowledge To The Rest Of Us."

Johanna thought about this too. Then she said

"Egetean fireclay is still clay. In theory, could a golem be built of this materiel?"

She realised Vetinari had stopped in mid-conversation with Sam Vimes and both were looking at her.

"It Would Be A Very Confused And Unhappy Golem. He Would Be Shunned By The Rest Of Us. And Firing The Clay Presents Technical Problems. As We Are Rational Creatures, His Chem Would Need To Be A Suicidal One Predisposing Him To Self-Immolation. But Yes, Such A Thing Is Possible."

"Perhaps a _different_ line of philosophical investigation, Doctor Smith-Rhodes?" said Vetinari, smoothly. And firmly.

"Of course, sir. I epologise." Johanna replied. Some weapons would be forbidden even to Assassins, she knew. And it would also mean Adora Belle Dearheart coming for her to demand a few moments of her time.

"I do have to say you were here most commendably swiftly." Vetinari remarked. "I thank you."

"We must ensure there are no more surprises." Johanna said. "Sir, everything that errived here in deliveries this morning _must_ be checked. _Everything._ I hev a squad with me who know what to look for."

She smiled at Sam Vimes.

"If Mr Vimes approves, we cen also deliver precticel training to members of the Wetch. I will need extra people for this tesk."

Vimes' face went deliberately unreadable. She knew about his mixed feelings concerning Assassin help offered to the watch. Baiting him was as much fun as defusing a bomb. And as potentially dangerous if you got over-confident.

"Capital idea, Doctor." Vetinari said, affably. "I believe you have people at other troublespots around the City?"

"Yes, sir. The Zoo end All Jolson's hev both reported suspect morning deliveries. And both locations have people who are on the death-list of our edvereries."

"Yes." Vetinari said, coldly. "Our adversaries. I am getting rather tired of this gang. Mr Trooper has been ordered to prepare four ropes for the happy day when we detain them. Several overseas Embassies have been informed that they may send representatives to the trial and to the hanging. But these men are now _ours._ "

* * *

 **To be continued – just getting too long for one chapter!**

 **(1)** "I did not intend that." Mariella said, later. "Best you do not admit that to the boys, _cherie_." Emmanuelle counselled her. "They now see you as one not to be made angry. Which is good for your reputation."

 **(2)** Emmanuelle was picking up lots of interesting Quirmian expressions from her colleague Mademoiselle Antoinette de Badin-Boucher. Seeking to educate Wayne Drooley had also educated her in the more _demotic_ expressions. Drooley spoke surprisingly good Quirmian, albeit in the manner of one who naturally gravitated to the equivalent of street-Morporkian. M. le Balouard often set him the assignment of translating football reports in the back pages of _**Quirm-Match**_ , when the rest of the class got more standard works of Quirmian Literature.

 **(3)** rivers with less solid content overflowed. The Ankh tended to crawl, or sprawl, over its banks.

 **(4)** The general expectation in any country was that you did the training and acquired a few basic skills _before_ fighting in any life-or-death pitched battles. Heidi had pointed out she had got a lot of the more crucial basic training proficiencies in seven years at the Assassins' School. The Staadt had said "Yes. We know. We paid for them. Welcome to the army. In your own time, Liutnant van Kruger."

 **(5)** Apart from the bits about bungee-jumping and squawking encouragement to each other in New Zealand accents, this is completely correct. The kakapo is a flightless parrot from New Zealand that really does exhibit these quirks. And it's endangered.

 **(6)** Rule Of Cautious Editing judgement again. Such things can be made. I read the recipe, oddly enough, in a library book back in the 1970's, when things were possibly a tadge more relaxed. Cautious experimentation with stuff nicked from the school chemistry lab demonstrated that it works a treat…


	10. Fetch Felix!

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **Having just been in hospital for a while and having come out feeling weak as a kitten and tired as a sloth. Six out of ten on the life-threatening scale, but dealt with to everybody's satisfaction. Getting better, despite appalling hospital food. Finding it difficult to get back into this – sorry for late and sporadic continuation! EDIT: slightly. to take out a few typos and glitches, like Cheery Littlebottom beciming a "he" at one point. Cheery would approve.  
**_

 _All Jolson's Food Emporium, Isle of Dogs, Ankh-Morpork._

Martin ffetch-Felix **(1)** hummed a jolly tune as he set to work. He was thirty-two years old, had been an Army officer in several Regiments, and had survived being officered by Lord Rust and Lord Selachii. Prior to that he had survived an education at Hugglestones' Academy and officer training at the Sto Helit Military Academy. Technically he was still an officer on the rolls of the new Horse Artillery Regiment established by Lord Vetinari, with financial backing from the Duke of Ankh, which Vetinari felt filled a gap in the structure of the military establishment, and which had honed the clumsy Agatean Dog technology into something streamlined, efficient, and lethally workable. He had survived several potentially disastrous incidents, while the Artillery was on its learning curve, involving black powder, nitrocellulose, gun-cotton, and negligent storage and casual carrying of shells and fuses. In fact, he'd spent a lot of his service writing the rule-book concerning safe handling of explosives. The paradox of being an artilleryman, he explained, was that 99% of the time your attention would be taken up with ensuring the stuff was safe as a lamb and harmless as a kitten. But would do everything you wanted it to do on those 1% of occasions where you really wanted it to go off pop, in the right place, at the right time, and pointing at the right target.

Brigadier Mountjoy-Standfast, who commanded Vetinari's City regiments, had seen the advantage of ffetch-Felix taking a period of study leave. The Guild of Assassins had also noted that he had a tendency to survive the sort of tricky spots that usually resulted in a large body count.

Therefore he became one of the very small number of candidates to take a Mature Students' Course who had simply walked up to the Guild gates, asked for a word with somebody in charge, and said they wanted to take the course. You know, just for the challenge. And to find out what you know about Exothermic Alchemy. Happen to know a bit about it myself as it happens, here's my CV. Maybe we can do each other a favour here?

The Guild had commissioned the usual background checks. No murders, stylishly inventive or otherwise. Good references. Completely sane. But My Gods, he's _survived_ some things…

With the City paying his fees, he had been accepted, and had sailed through the course, passing out as an Assassin fifteen months later. He had never inhumed anyone, and had no great plans to. But he was _good_ with explosives….

And now he was approaching the haphazard sangar in the back alley behind All Jolson's. He whistled a cheery tune as he approached, the student Assassin who was his assistant following on with the tools.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, a safe distance away, heard the grating whistling coming at her through the omniscope link **.(2)** She winced.

"Ye gods, _this_ is a dog's breakfast!" he boomed. His loud cheerful voice echoed around the control post and could be heard by the members of the public behind the safety barriers, who had gathered to watch the street theatre.

"Never seen a sangar made of flour sacks before. Nice dry flour in fifty pound sacks. This beauty goes off pop, the first thing it will do is to tear up these sacks and disperse the flour into the air. Next thing it'll do is to ignite a lot of dry carbon-based powder that's been whipped up into an aerosol with lots of free oxygen. _Big_ boom. And all these onions and things shooting off as vegetable shrapnel. You'd be burying me, and young Vernon here, in the same very small envelope!"

There was a pause, and in a lower voice

"Not dismayed yet, lad?"

"No, sir." The younger male voice sounded amused and alert.

"Good-oh. Stick close and watch closer? Thanks." There was another pause. "Now whoever built this sangar obviously _saw_ one once in their life, as it conforms to the desired shape, but they never got as far as Lesson One. Totally useless. A real chocolate teapot, if you ask me."

Sergeant Precious Jolson blushed a deeper brown. Johanna smiled at her.

"It wes a good try." she said. "Remind me to show you how to do it _properly,_ some day."

The voice boomed on.

"False protection. Backed onto a brick wall too, so if she blows, it's likely the whole side wall of this house comes down too. We need to pull it down, so we can get to the jolly little device tucked away inside. Right, young Vernon, let's begin here…"

Johanna smiled to herself. Alaistar Vernon, Mykkims House, was a calm and level-headed young man of eighteen, coming up to his Final Run. He'd volunteered for this work, and had signed the standard disclaimer to be brought out in the event of misadventure. He'd do what was asked of him whilst learning from the master.

Whilst the team dismantled the alleged sangar, Johanna allowed herself a few moments reflection on other pressing matters.

 _If a she, my daughter cannot be a Johanna. That honour goes to the oldest girl in each generation, and my sister Agnetha was industrious enough to produce a girl, almost ten years ago. Damn her. She is mother of this generation's Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Well, Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Majaandie._

Johanna reflected that her oldest niece was coming to the age where secondary school education needed to be decided. She recalled that Charles Smith-Rhodes, the accepted and respected head of The Wider Family, had spent time talking to Young Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Majaandie, at her wedding to Ponder. He had then mentioned, à propos of nothing, that he could make adequate funds available for educating members of The Family in Ankh-Morpork. Say if Young Johanna wanted to give the Assassins' School a go. Bound to get in. But expensive fees. Her mother, Agnetha Majaandie, Johanna remembered, had gone a little bit pale at the implications. She grinned.

 _Agnetha has also given our parents an Andreas and an Agnetha,_ Johanna reflected. _So I have no obligation to name the child for my mother or my father. That is good. I like the sound of Monika. Or Famke._

"Looking at a large barrel." The omniscope reported. "Could be a twenty-pounder, if it's Fireclay. That means this street is up for urban redevelopment if we get it wrong. Well, we can shift these bloody flour sacks, laddie. One hazard out of the way."

Johanna watched the omniscope, as working hands pulled and dragged the flour and produce sacks out of harm's way. She sighed and allowed the mental reverie to run a parallel track in her mind.

 _Definitely_ _ **not**_ _"Mustrum" for a boy. Or "Hughnon". Ponder, after his father, possibly. Baalthazar, after my clever, but rogue, uncle?_ She shuddered. _Klarenz, my dear uncle. But he has cross eyes. Is that tempting fate?_ She speculated on Charles. Carl, or Karel. Kareltje. _Depending on which of our names he chooses to take. Kareltje Smith-Rhodes. Carl Stibbons._ She felt the baby kick. She wondered if that meant he liked or disliked the idea of being a Charles, in whatever language. Or maybe there was a Carlotta in there making her feelings known. _Maybe after a dear friend. Alice? Emmanuelle?_ She considered the associations of both names. Was it really fair on an unborn daughter? Was it tempting fate? She ran the timeline of a daughter called Emmanuelle Smith-Rhodes forward by thirty years. Then she _really_ winced. _Mariella, for her aunt? Friejda, even, for_ **my** _aunt?_

"Right." said the businesslike voice. "One seemingly inert barrel. Labelled as containing anchovies. While it smells of fish, I don't believe that for one second. No proximity or pressure fuse. We can deduce that from the fact it's been rolling around on a wagon and frequently manhandled. If anything in there was motion-sensitive, we'd know about it by now. Proposing to go in through the top. Stand by."

Johanna switched her mental track to watching as the steady hands began to work the top of the barrel loose, with slow, infinite, caution. A probe was called for and was inserted underneath the lid. The hands moved it deep, with infinite care, checking the underside.

"Fuse is not attached to the lid to blow it up when opened." the voice said. "I'm pretty sure of that. Well, ninety per cent, anyway. Removing lid…"

Johanna watched, aching to be in there herself. But it was just too dangerous… then she felt a sensation of anti-climax.

The omniscope revealed a layer of packed salted fish.

"Well, we've struck anchovies." the dry voice said. "Dangerous bloody things. All that salt and oily fat isn't good for you. But probing…."

The probe was inserted into the barrel. It didn't go in too far.

"Ah- _Hah_!" said the voice. Hands were seen carefully lifting the fish out. The layer of fish was no more than two inches deep. Various splatting noises were heard as the filling was cast to one side. The omniscope was angled to reveal a succession of crimped metal tubes attached to a false floor.

"Clever." said the voice. "The client would open the barrel and see anchovies. But underneath those we get…"

 _{{miouw!}}_

"Do me a favour, Vernon. Get that bloody cat out of here, would you? Thanks."

There was another pause. Johanna recognised chemical timer fuses on a long setting. Several stages had burned down. The bomb looked as if it was on its last stage.

"Possibly set for one-hour intervals." the distant voice said. "Consistent with it having been constructed last night, and placed on the produce cart in the early hours of the morning. Estimate we have thirty minutes left. Bags of time."

Johanna watched the rest. Routine now. ffetch-Felix explaining to his assistant what they were looking at and what to do with it, fending off an insistent cat looking hopefully for more anchovies, and opening the body of the bomb to remove not one but several fuses, embedded deep in the fireclay.

When he was finished, the bomb-disposal Assassin leaned back and said "All clear. The people from the cafeteria might want to come out and grab their stuff, before other people do? Right, let's get cleared up here, and grab a cup of tea. Smashing."

* * *

 _The Rimwards Howondaland Embassy, Scoone Avenue._

On the way back from her technical breach of apartheid law, the Princess had noted they were in an empty corridor. She had tried a door and discovered it led into an empty office. Julian found himself dragged in, with some force. A necessarily brief but mutually pleasant breach of the Racial Separation Acts then ensued.

"Better stop there, I think." Ruth said. Formal clothing was not intended to be removed quickly, and she knew they were approaching a point of no return. Seriously disordered clothing would be _noticed_ when they returned. She smiled at Julian.

"Just making a point." she said, patting her dress down.

The Princess and her escort then moved on to the reception room where Julian noticed a clerk rushing to the Acting Ambassador with clacks flimsies. Richard whistled, then showed them to the Zulu Ambassador, who looked grave and attentive. Julian wondered what had happened. Then the Chargé d'Affaires beckoned him over.

The news was of bombs around the city and an attempted assassination on Vetinari.

"Maximum security, sir?" Julian asked. The Acting Ambassador nodded.

"Excellency, we need to confer privately." he said. The Zulu nodded sombrely. The two Ambassadors passed into a separate anteroom.

"Problems?" Ruth asked. Julian briefed her. She nodded.

"Well, I'd be surprised if they actually _got_ Lord Vetinari". she remarked. "That man could tame honey-badgers and get them eating out of his hand."

"As opposed to their eating his hand." Julian agreed. He excused himself and addressed the undeclared Zulu officer, in _isiZulu._

"Induna, the privacy of our ambassadors needs to be secured." Julian said. "This is not a task for footsoldiers. I propose we, _as officers_ , stand either side of this door and guard their privacy to speak."

There was a moment's pause.

"I thank you for the courtesy. But I am _indunala_ , not _induna_." The Zulu said, citing a lower rank.

"Major N'Seminwe. One of _our_ military atttachés." Ruth clarified. Julian was not surprised.

The two officers took up position at the door. As Julian had suspected they could hear the distant glug of drinks being poured and the clink of glasses as top-level diplomacy happened. Soon they'd hear faint but audible voices.

The Zulu officer asked, in a low voice: "You fought the insolent Matabeles at the Tobacco Field. Alongside the Princess, honour to her blade. Twelve of them were humbled by your sword?"

Julian smiled, modestly. He wondered if Ruth had been priming her soldiers.

"Only three fell to my blade, _indunula._ The other nine in the arrow storm beforehand, perhaps. So many arrows were in the air, and the target so massed, that few missed."

The Zulu grinned.

"Bloody good, Smith-Rhodes!" he said, in Morporkian.

Ruth smiled inscrutably.

* * *

 _Near the Troll's Head. The Shades._

Even thought it was still only mid-morning, the three men moved quickly through the alleys and the narrow roads. Something had un-nerved them. A feeling they were being followed by something they hadn't been able to see or identify. And that was on top of all those bloody bombs that were going off everywhere. Nobody wanted to be around near one of those when it happened. One had blown a bloody great hole in the Palace, hadn't it? No, best get home and not shift till the emergency was over. 'Least the bloody Watch was tied up in knots over it, one less thing to worry about…

The three, denizens of the Troll's Head, possibly the roughest and most lawless boozer in the city, quickened their pace. The leader looked up, suspecting he'd seen a flash of black. He winced. Black had bad memories.

"Think they got Vetinari?" he asked, to lighten the mood. The two others considered this.

"Nah." one said, with a head-shake. "he'd have tied a gallon of paint to the bomb, talked it into redecorating a room when it went off. Not Vetinari."

He looked up. Glimpses of black, flickering from above gave him the vapours. It reminded him of that terrible night when…

They rushed on. He relaxed. Nearly home now…

Then there was a lot of black.

"Gentlemen!" a cheerful voice said. A woman's voice. A terribly _familiar_ woman's voice.

"There is a Number Two throwing knife in my left hand. I know I can only hit _one_ of you in the neck with it – before I have to draw my sword with my _right_ hand. But the question is – whose neck? So I'd advise you to turn round, slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them. Thank you so much."

The voice was the relaxed voice of a woman who has everything perfectly under control and everyone where she wants them. A voice like that can afford to be friendly and relaxed.

The three men turned, hands carefully exposed and open, and witnessed the terrible sight of a very relaxed woman in black who smiled pleasantly at them.

"My name is Alice Band." she said. "You may remember me from the night some years ago where I dropped into the Troll's Head for a social drink and to ask for information. I recall you were all _very_ forthcoming. Eventually." **(3)**

The three looked at each other. Then the spokesman swallowed nervously and said "What do you want to know, Miss?"

Alice smiled warmly.

"Well, to begin with, four men from Rimwards Howondaland. Hiding from the Law. Believe me, anything you can tell me is **not** grassing. They're responsible for the loud bangs this morning, for one thing."

Alice had to raise a hand and ask them to slow down.

"I see. Last known address is Snort Yard, just off Addle Street. Upper floor rooms rented by Mr Malalchy Purselips, a property owner known to let, for an extra consideration, to people on the run from the Watch. There is a whisper they may have moved on. But that's kosher information, that is, Miss Band, honest, and you ain't heard it from us."

Alice stepped back. She smiled again.

"Thank you for your co-operation, gentlemen. It is appreciated, and I'm sure we can agree it's better all round if offered freely. As a token of thanks I propose to leave a five-dollar note just _here_ , where one of you can pick it up later. You can have a drink on me, which I'm sure beats broken bones, or having an arm or a leg cut off in a place where there may not be an Igor for miles around. Good morning to you!"

Alice backed off and around a corner, and was gone. The three thugs relaxed. Assassins weren't bad, if you weren't on the list and hadn't given them a reason to get annoyed. They could be generous, even.

* * *

 _The Zoo, mid-morning._

Johanna Smith-Rhodes glared down at the defused bombs on the desk in front of her. After concluding business at All Jolson's, she had left ffetch-Felix in charge in the city and ridden to the Zoo to answer the situation there. The Zoo was hers, after all. Her achievement, and something she took pride and ownership in. And oh, to be riding a horse, one of a diminishing few forms of exercise she had not been forbidden from. Even if she needed boosting into the saddle. The fire in the bedding store had been contained with little actual damage. The carter's injured horses had been taken to a vacant paddock where Jimmy Folsom had been called to tend to the burns. The carter himself had been sent back to the city with a Watch incident number and iconographs of the ruin of his cart, and told to start an insurance and loss of earnings claim with the Guild of Carters and Drovers. The Zoo had paid his cab fare home and would look after the horses for free as a courtesy till they were healed, here's a receipt. Heidi had paused and added, with meaning, "Now go on _home_ , Mr Shoreditch?"

Johanna's bomb-disposal squad had made the devices safe, and their component parts were now spread over the Zoo director's desk. Sergeant Littlebottom of the Watch had attended, and was listening to the technical explanation.

"Incendiary pipe bombs." she repeated. Cheery examined the pipe, having been assured it was now safe to handle. "A length of steel pipe. Thick wall. Plugged halfway down with a copper disc. One side is filled with _{{a commonly available chemical in powder form}}_ and the end plugged with wax. The other side is filled with _{{a common liquid acid}}_ **(4)** and that end is also sealed with wax. The acid eats through the copper separator faster than it does through the steel of the tube. You can roughly time these things by the thickness of the copper seal. The moment the copper is gone and the acid drips into the powder, there is a massive release of heat energy. This sets fire to everything around it and the device is vapourised. No trace."

She grimaced and set the pipe down.

"And the parcel bombs." Cheery said. Mr von Lipwig explained to us these were missed by the Post Office search this morning, as they had been taken out of the sorting system for being insufficiently stamped. Miss Maccalariat absolutely prides herself on identifying under-stamped items, and is proud of her record for ensuring nobody gets a free ride. They were logged and re-stamped, for collection of the underpayment plus a penalty charge from the recipient. To ensure the underpayment and penalty charge were levied, a special delivery brought them out here with such other items for the Zoo as had been cleared. At no stage did they go anywhere near the checking area for suspect packages. Collecting the penalty fine took priority, according to Post Office Regulations."

"Somebody on their side hes a first-class brain." Johanna remarked. "Unfortunately for us."

She picked up a de-activated parcel bomb.

"Lucky you spotted these, Heidi". she remarked. "They'd heve spoilt the morning for somebody, otherwise."

Johanna tested the mechanism and folded back a carefully cut flap of the brown parcel paper.

"Spring-loaded." she said. "Everything kept under tension by the tightly secured wrepping paper. But the moment you open it or employ a letter-knife – _beng._ Just es you ere holding it in front of you."

Johanna indicated the payload, a bundle of nails wrapped round a now-inert lump of Agatean fireclay. It wasn't a large lump. But it didn't need to be. An instant-action detonator fuse had been withdrawn from the explosive block.

Cheery took more notes. She had already extensively iconographed the evidence.

"How many pipe-bombs were intercepted and made safe?" she asked.

"Only these two. One exploded on the cert. One in the bedding stores. Luckily, a young student redeemed himself by removing the burning bales. I believe there were no more than four, carefully inserted into the hey." Heidi said.

Johanna frowned. She had once spent a wholly deniable night at the Embassy, stealthily breaking into the BOSS section's offices to try to track down where the dangerous idiot Verkramp was said to be hiding his own stash of high explosives. Having evaded the night patrols with ease, she failed to locate the explosives, but had spent a profitable time using a night iconograph, with infra-octarine flash, to copy as many interesting BOSS documents as she could. These had included an agent's manual with comprehensive bomb-making instructions.

After some internal debate on the issues involved, Johanna had decided this was a case of " _My country, very wrong_ _ **indeed**_ " and decided that any sense of patriotism, be hanged. She had lodged the stolen BOSS material in the Foreign Intelligence Services section of the Black Library (access restricted). This had earned her a commendation from the Dark Council.

She recalled that she had been acting on a request from her uncle, and from the Senior Defence Attaché, Kolonel Breytenbach, to practically test Embassy security. Breytenbach said he had left a sealed envelope on a desk in a given room. Her task was to evade guards primed to detect an intruder's presence, read the message in the envelope, and get out again without being detected. So no breach of trust had been involved. Well, not much. Johanna had quickly succeeded in her primary task, then she had decided to spend the rest of the night probing the defences of BOSS. This was mainly to try and locate hidden explosives, but also to break her own lifelong conditioning: a typical Rimwards Howondalandian, she recalled intense fear that having once been invited into a BOSS office, she would never be allowed to leave again, and she might disappear. Secret policemen corroded peoples' courage like that. **(5)**

* * *

Alice Band considered the information she'd been given. She had no personal grievance against the Howondalandians in the way Johanna did. Except for the grief they'd caused Steffi Gibbett when they'd murdered a member of her extended Thieves' Guild family. Alice was not especially close to her brothers or sister. But she'd still hurt if one were to be killed. She understood the hurt and she was doing this for her lover.

And the clients were a desperate gang, of hard men with exceptional fighting and survival skills, who'd proven ruthlessly efficient at staying alive. Not your usual street vermin, then. Same nationality as Johanna and Heidi. So they'd be hard fighters, tough, difficult to kill, and _very_ dangerous. Alice reflected it would be possibly over-confident to go in alone. And the Guild had been ordered to share its information with other interested agencies.

She shrugged, and made her way to Pseudopolis Yard. _Better get back-up. Spread a little goodwill._

* * *

At the Embassy, the Zulu delegation had left for their own base on Brookless Lane. Julian breathed a huge sigh of relief and set about reorganising his security detachment. Fortunately, some White Howondalandians, resident in Ankh-Morpork but with military experience, had volunteered to help out with security duties. With the aid of a BOSS sergeant who seemed to have his head screwed on a bit better than Verkramp, he had given them cursory security checks, revolving around checkable questions like "Former _Kommando_?" "Where and when did you serve?" "Who was the commanding officer?" and "Seen action?"

He had sworn in six _older_ men…. Dear Gods. Mr van Puhler was approaching seventy. He ran a wine importers in the city. But he was sober, most of the time, and had been pathetically eager to do his bit. And only one of the six was under fifty.

Sergeant de Kock had been sympathetic.

"Bit of a Dad's Army, sir." he had said. "But never mind. We can have the old fellows sitting on the door checking security passes. Or on the gate where they just need to stand. And Mr Lutyens digging out his old uniform gives you another officer, to help organise things."

Julian nodded, and set about completing his report to go to Pratoria on the next flying carpet, or still better Pegasus.

And then Angua von Überwald turned up. He greeted her with guarded friendliness. She smiled, reassuringly. They discussed the day's events and the bombs for a while.

"The only real bother was at Jolson's". Angua said. "People allowed to go back to their homes tried to nick from the food sacks Precious had been using in place of sandbags. Well, in this city, people will pinch _anything_. All that flour and those onions and potatoes lying around with no obvious owner were a week's free dinners. The riot took Precious and six coppers to sort it out!"

Julian grinned.

"I hear you have a potential problem with your guard dogs?" she said, pleasantly. Need a hand?"

Julian knew Angua could be said to have an _affinity_ with dogs. He nodded.

"We've got three or four currently orphaned puppies round the back." he said. "Their handlers were either killed or badly wounded in the attack. I'm reluctant to put them down, but it's getting to the point where there really doesn't seem to be an alternative."

"That's what Mr Vimes and the Patrician said." Angua remarked. "His Lordship asked if I could volunteer you my services to assist. And Lady Sybil said I should at least _try._ She's reluctant to see any animal put down if there's a chance of saving it."

Julian must have looked uncertain. Angua patted his arm.

"I think I can do this." she said. "In fact, I _know_."

Ten minutes later, Angua was standing outside a dog compound where four maddened and angry Ridgebacks were alternatively pacing, howling, throwing themselves at the wire fence, and issuing low blood-curdling growls of threat to anyone getting too close on the other side of the fence. It was getting too dangerous to do anything other than to feed them at long distance, and their exercise yard desperately needed cleaning up. Worst, their state of mind was beginning to infect the other dogs.

Angua watched them impassively. She stood without fear as one Ridgeback after another launched a snarling charge at the fence immediately opposite her. Sergeant de Kock watched, twirling his issue cap with fear and trepidation in front of his body.

Julian mentally compared the snarling canine maniacs in the cage to Johanna's good natured family pets. It was hard to contemplate that these were the same species. Related, even. Kaffee and Crème were from the same bloodline as some of these dogs.

Without fear, Angua walked to within two feet of the straining wire and folded her arms. Julian realised she was _challenging_ the dogs, asserting dominance.

She allowed them to burn out their rage. Panting, the dogs formed a semi-circle, growling at her in a way that would have made a decorated combat veteran run for it. With a guilty start, Julian realised he'd been discreetly establishing his own escape route **(6).** There was a tree over there with lots of good hand and foot holds. _Surviving_ would have been worth any loss of dignity. He'd been carefully edging towards it, in fact.

"What do you think, sir?" de Kock asked, agitated.

"Something's happening." Julian said. "Watch."

Without fuss and conceding nothing, Angua knelt down. In dead silence, she stared back at the dogs, moving her focus from animal to animal. Then she growled back. It was uncompromising. It had _harmonics_. It sounded as if she was throwing down a challenge.

De Kock said something short, sharp and very surprised in _Vondalaans_.

"Sir! they _blinked_!" he said. Julian stored up another piece of dggy lore for consideration. Apparently an angry Ridgeback on the point of going for your throat never blinked. it was unheard of. Until now.

It now sounded as if Angua was having a conversation with the alpha-dog of the small pack. She growled, grunted and snortled. The dog growled, grunted and snortled back. **(7)** Then she threw back her head and _howled_.

Sergeant de Kock had never seen a werewolf. But his genes went all the way back to Sto Kerrig, on the Central Continent. Werewolves had been known there. Some things were genetically encoded. Both he and Julian found themselves fighting an impulse to break and run like Hell, their nerve gone.

Without taking her eyes off the dogs, Angua said, as the pack went into terrified submission to their new Leader, "I believe they will be docile now. Bring food and water. Then open the cage!"

Angua made a point of feeding and watering each dog personally. They came to her quietly and respectfully. She stood back and said "Sergeant, bring four leads? I'll walk this one."

She indicated the formerly alpha-dog. It nuzzled her hand respectfully, glad of the human contact.

Three of your men can take the others. It wouldn't be a bad idea if they each walk the same dog from now on. Bond to it. While we're walking the dogs, you can have people in this cage cleaning up, as, frankly, it's a bloody disgrace. Make it fit for them to come back to. Don't worry, they'll be happy. But they need consistency and a _lot_ of reassurance."

Julian saw the dog-walking party off, then persuaded a group of black servants to get into the dog-yard with shovels and brooms. An extra dollar each, discreetly handed over, helped him gain their co-operation. He wondered if this was the Smith-Rhodes name working its magic again. The soldiers normally mucked out the dog cages themselves, accepting the dogs had an ingrained nasty streak around black people. It wasn't part of an Embassy servant's contract, and for good reason. _Ah well,_ he thought, wondering if he could make a valid expenses claim for the five dollars in inducements. _Call it noblesse oblige. And it doesn't hurt for them to be reminded the Smith-Rhodes family are good baases._

He heard the slap of large wings in the air before he saw the Pegasus.

It was descending to the drive in front of the Embassy. Half-running to meet it, he recognised Olga Romanoff, who wasn't alone. She got off first, then reached up to her passenger, helping the well-wrapped elderly man to earth with every care and consideration. As he removed the heavy coat and blanket wraps he had been wearing, Julian recognised who the frail elderly man in his seventies _was_.

He yelled for the Guard to fall in on the road. He grabbed a passing Embassy clerk by the shoulder.

"Go and get the Ambassador!" he shouted. "In fact, get _everyone._ High-level visitor from Home!"

The clerk looked round at the old man, did a double-take, then ran for the main building.

And Julian stamped to attention in front of the Staadtspraesident of his country, the Head of State, and threw up the sharpest salute of his life.

"err… welcome to Ankh-Morpork, sir!" he said.

"Let's keep it _informal_ , Julian." the President requested him. "I don't want too many people knowing I'm here. Vetinari, obviously. Although it's not as if he won't already _know_ , damn him."

The old man grinned.

"Let's call this a _flying visit_." he said. "I want to see things on the ground here, for myself. See van der Graaf in hospital, if it can be arranged. Talk to people, after the business yesterday. Havelock. Vimes. And Downey. These your new guardsmen? Let's take a look."

The president's eye took in the dog-walkers on the other side of the Embassy grounds.

"Your guard-dogs? Seem well-behaved. You'll have to introduce me, later. I quite like dogs. I hear you had a problem with some of them?" Julian winced, remembering how well-behaved the dogs had been maybe an hour before. He hoped Angua would stick around for as long as it took.

"But you sorted it out. Then again, you're your father's son. I'd have expected nothing less."

And the president took an ad-hoc inspection of the _new_ Embassy guard.

"You're older than _me_ , man!" he said, pleasantly, to Private van Puhler.

"Never too old to do my bit, sir!" the over-age soldier replied, proudly.

"Appreciated." said the President. "We should sit on the _stoep_ with a beer together, we old-timers!"

Julian had a suspicion this might happen before the old man left for Home.

The next man was Private N'Gemini. The President appeared not to notice the colour of his skin, but asked if he was the fellow who'd led the defence the other day? "Approved a bonus for you, by the way. Julian said you've got a wife at home and five children? She'll be glad of it."

And then the Acting Ambassador, and Lady Friejda, were hurrying down the steps.

"I do hope I get to meet Mrs Vinhuis." the President said, pleasantly. "Although Friejda has always been easy on a man's eye."

* * *

Alice leant on the wall and exhaled, frustrated. They'd been too late.

Yellow and black Watch tape was everywhere as officers began an intensive search. Malachy Purselips had been rousted out and was currently in the grip of Sergeant Detritus, as Sam Vimes patiently pumped him for news of his late tenants, the four men from Howondaland.

"And it never occurred to you that they might be the same four men who did the train robbery?" Vimes grated. "Murdered one of my Watchmen?"

"You don't ask these things." Purselips repeated. "I just takes the money, and facilitates rooms."

"I've got a room facilitated for _you_ right _now_ , Purselips!" Vimes growled. "It's underneath Pseudopolis Yard and it's got bars on a very small window. The only good thing about it is that it's rent-free. So you'd better start talking. Did you know where they went? Did you even know they'd gone?"

Purselips remained close-lips. Even when Alice took out a very sharp knife and began cleaning her fingernails with it in a very meaningful way.

"As you can see, the Guild of Assassins is also keen to find these people." Vimes remarked. And it's not to give them a handshake, offer the sherry around, and suggest they sign on the dotted line and become members. Oh, no. they've _annoyed_ the Assassins. And if you're with-holding information, _so will you_!"

He noticed Purselips seemed to register this. Alice Band's full-on scowl certainly helped.

"Lord Vetinari is also taking a close personal interest after somebody tried to kill the Howondalandian Ambassador yesterday. And tried to blow him up this morning." he added. "These late tenants of yours are certainly making friends in this city. Although so long as they paid up on time, that doesn't matter to you, does it?"

Vimes paused, and added: "We _do_ have the option of handing you over to the Palace so His Lordship's people can have a quiet word. Just between us, I suspect his people go a little bit further than the Watch are legally able, with regard to aggressive interrogation. But it's like you and your tenants' rent. Once I hand you over and get a receipt, that's not _my_ problem, is it?"

He paused to let this sink in, and nodded to Detritus.

"Book him. Get him in a cell. The only available cells we've got have windows at street level, don't they? So if anyone wanted to keep a prisoner quiet and stop him talking, they could stroll by and fire a silenced one-shot down through the bars. Bit of a security problem, there, but I don't have the manpower to post a street guard on the off-chance. "

He shook his head.

"Take him away."

Alice Band raised an eyebrow. Vimes grinned at her.

"He'll be under full guard twenty-four and eight." he assured her. "Too important a prisoner to lose. But if he _thinks_ he's going to be killed in his cell to stop him talking… well, imagination is a terrible thing."

Alice understood. She sheathed her knife, grateful of an excuse to stop pretending to manicure herself. It was an intimidation technique that seemed to work, when applied by a Lady Assassin who was wholly coincidentally demonstrating she kept sharp blades about her person.

"Besides, out here, where people can listen, he's going to be the tough hardcase who'll spit in a copper's eye rather than grass. He's got to be. His livelihood depends on it. But in the cells, where only _we_ can hear, it's a different story. Always is."

And then Constable Pettibone came up to relate the neighbour's witness statement, about the removal cart that carried a small discreet address in Leastways. Being the sort of old lady who likes to know these things, especially about the undesirable rude foreigners who'd moved in next door, stinking the place out with their foreign food, she'd even memorised the cart number…

* * *

 **(1)** He was another of those people cursed by having a name beginning with "ff". Nobody was sure where it went in the alphabet nor even how to pronounce it. " _Fetch Felix_ " is also an in-joke that anyone who has spent time in the British armed forces will appreciate: _"Felix_ " is the call-sign for _"explosives ordnance technician". "Fetch Felix!"_ means _"We need a bomb disposal man! And fast!"_

 **(2)** Ponder Stibbons had suggested this as a means by which the bomb-disposal person could keep in touch with a command centre and pass back pictures and a commentary which could be recorded by HEX for playback later. Johanna had added that if the transmission were to abruptly cut out at any point, at least we could then deduce what the operative had done _wrong_ at that point, and seek not to do it in future.

 **(3)** Unashamed plug for my tale _ **Clowning is a Serious Business,**_ in which Alice drops in at the Troll's Head soliciting information. And gets it.

 **(4)** what TVTropes describes as " _rule of cautious editing judgement_ " again. Or "Do not try this at home". Cheery did correctly identify the substances, though. She's an Alchemist and has witnessed many a loud bang. **  
**

 **(5)** Breytenbach had, at first, been pleased to see the sealed envelope was exactly where he had left it, apparently untouched. The night guards reported no intrusion. Then at breakfast, Johanna gave him an iconograph of the contents. Opening the envelope, he found she'd added her signature to the page. Her report detailed fourteen different ways in which night security could be made better.

 **(6)** Julian Smith-Rhodes thought about this and decided that as a decorated combat veteran who'd survived two intense firefights, _this_ time he was running for that bloody tree _anyway._ Regardless of who found him up there calling for help. He'd earned the right to.

 **(7)** She was. In Basic Canine, it translated as "Master gone. We lonely and confused. No God. Nobody tell us anything. Other humans weak and scared. No Walkies. We get angry. Help us please?" to which Angua was responding "You know what I am. Bigger than dog. More vicious than Man. Do you wish to see what I can become? You know this already. You are fearful of this. You. alpha-dog. I am taking over as Prime. We can fight about this. But you will bleed and submit. This is the easy way." Angua then _really_ growled. A Werewolf growl. It said "This is Hard Way. I will lead you. Speak to humans. BUT SUBMIT TO ME!" And then she _**Howled.**_ Capital-h howling.


	11. More Near Misses

_**Nothing to it, really!**_

 _ **EDIT: A slight rewrite, to take into account valid reader criticism (thank you yairm210) and to eliminate a slight but naggingly obvious character inconsistency.**_

 _ **Getting better. After hospital, was forced onto a weight-loss scheme by family. Decided to go along with it to shut them up. (I have a sister- in- law who gets loud and insistent in a persistently aggravating sort of way. Estressa Partleigh crossed with Maccalariat-Lite. You wouldn't want to know.) Went to the first class with a sensation of "Oh God. I don't want to be rude to anyone, but….". Thought about it, decided if I was going to do this thing, I may as well do it properly. Paid attention. Appreciated all the guff about "free food", "healthy options" and "syns" made a sort of sense. But appreciated the underlying psychology: keeping a detailed food diary of everything that passed my lips made better sense. The discipline of writing everything down was forcing me to pay attention to the issues involved. Not to be boring about it, but a week of thinking "do I really need this?" or "Can't be arsed writing it down. Better not eat it, then" had results. Fourteen and a half pounds gone in one week? Blimey.**_

 _ **Ground rules:**_

 _ **Drink Rooibus tea with no milk and no sweetener.**_

 _ **No eating at the computer. Rooibos tea is permissible.**_

 _ **No snacking after seven pm. Except for bits of fruit.**_

 _ **No desserts except fruit or fruit yoghurt.**_

 _ **Lean meat only.**_

 _ **No sugary drinks. Rooibus tea is nice.**_

 _ **No fries. Help. The difficult one.**_

 _ **Eat normal amounts.**_

 _ **Move around a bit more.**_

 _ **Drink Rooibuis tea.**_

 _ **And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale in at most three chapters and perhaps an Afterword.**_

The Leastways suburb of Ankh-Morpork was one of the first overspill residential areas to spring up on the outside of the city walls. It has several hundred years of history and some of its older streets have centuries of character and atmosphere to them, akin with that to be found inside the walls. Today, it is part of the wider City known by the catch-all name of "New Ankh", or "Outer Morpork", a process of expansion which in this modern age of the Rail Ways is proceeding apace. Today houses in Leastways are sold by wily estate agents, who have cottoned on to upwards social mobility, yearnings, and aspirations. Those not nearly affluent enough to buy within the city walls are happy to go along with the estate agent's description of _Nap Hill Borders_ or _On the lower slopes of The Tump_ or _Higher Pallant Street. Tump Foothills_ is a good one. It enables people buying houses there to boast that they live in high-status Ankh (almost) and are affluent enough to be able to buy onto the property ladder in Nap Hill (nearly.) Such light industry as there is is out on the edges, on the fringes of the City, where there's more room and residential houses become smaller, more modern in build, and more tightly packed together.

The Least Gate is therefore a low-priority one for the City Watch to man, as it opens up onto a settled, relatively affluent, suburb with relatively low crime levels. And behind the Least Gate, inside the city, are the Ankh suburbs boasting progressively higher affluence and social respectability, as you pass down Pallant Street through Nap Hill, Hopesprings and Seven Sleepers, towards the _really_ high-rent bits around Scoone Avenue and King's Way. The crimes committed here are generally higher-order and more socially respectable than in Morpork, over the river.

It is a soft easy posting for Watchmen.

Until Commander Vimes and Captain Carrot turn up at the head of a Squad, demanding to see the log-books and the incident reports. It's like getting a sudden unannounced inspection from Head Office. Only _worse._

"Oh, Hell!" Vimes cursed, trying to make sense of the scribbled notes, loosely piled incident reports, and all the other policing bureaucracy that the regular Watch here had been meaning to copy over to the files, just as soon as there was time. He glared at the nervous and sweating constables. Vimes was annoyed, but he'd done his share of Gate Watchhouse duties in his time. He knew how boring it was and how you could slip into bad habits.

"A.E.? Gooseberry? See what sense you can make of all this, could you?" he asked. "I want to know about cart movements through this Gate in the last week. Especially on the night Trawler's Alchemickal was done over. Thanks." He went outside, tugging out his cigar packet.

Inpsector Pessimal nodded his understanding. The glowing green sprite, Lance-Constable Gooseberry, twanged to attention and started doing what he was _good_ at. Organising files.

Alice Band, who'd been invited to tag along as Assassins' Guild observer, leant against the wall and smiled slightly. Vimes was aware the Guild had an interest here, and it had been Alice who'd brought him the valuable lead. He could afford to be inclusive.

"Alice." Vimes nodded, lighting a cigar.

"Sir Samuel." she said, politely.

He regarded her curiously.

"I hear the Guild put a contract out on these men." he said. "Ten thousand each with no Guild tax if they get brought in alive. You got the lead, but you brought it to _us_. Why?"

Alice shrugged.

"What could I _do_?" she asked. "I know my limits. Going in myself, on my own, against people who know what they're doing and know how to fight. With no back-up and nobody knowing where I was…. Stupidly over-confident."

Vimes accepted this. It made sense. Assassins who took regular contracts and lived into their thirties were not over-confident. _Experienced_ Assassins generally were not.

"If I'd gone back to the Guild, and made a quick working plan, and got back-up. That would have taken time. And it would have taken five or six of us. Forty thousand – assuming we didn't kill any of them – split six or seven ways. Had we _killed_ any, the price drops to three thousand."

Alice made a derisory noise. "Not worth the risk. Not worth getting out of bed for, in fact. Except for the fact one of them killed Steffi's brother."

Vimes made a mental adjustment.

"Titch Gibbet, the Thief?"

"Brother by adoption. Guild foundling. Assigned to the Gibbet family. I'm not quite sure how that works. We don't get many babies left on the steps of our Guild with a little note attached, saying "please take me in and give me an education".

Alice considered this.

"Well… in a manner of speaking we _do_. But after Jonathan Teatime, we take more care, these days."

"He was the orphan who…"

"The Guild took pity on. Without asking _how_ he'd become an orphan. Yes."

Vimes changed the subject slightly.

"Babies." He reflected. He thought of Young Sam.

" _Babies."_ said Alice. "Who, without prejudicing my reputation as a flinty-hearted lethally murderous stone-cold bitch, I'd quite like to see. You know, out of interest. As long as _other people_ have them. Did I tell you I've already had one offer to be a godsmother?"

Vimes started. Alice Band as a _godsparent?_ Well, she'd be one mean Mother, Gods help the child.

"Johanna." Alice clarified. "She thinks I'd be quite good at it."

"Well, it'll be eleven years before the child can start at the Assassins' School." Vimes reflected.

Alice laughed.

"Don't presume, Sir Samuel. What if it's a boy and he takes after his father? We can't educate anyone as an Assassin if they've got magic. Vetinari is flat against that. An Assassin with Wizard skills would be _too_ powerful. The University would take him, if that showed."

Vimes considered this. A Wizard with his father's ability and his mother's temper.

"Ouch." he said. "But what if it's a _girl_ with magic?"

"Tricky." Alice said. "My guess is they'd pack her off to foster-parents in Lancre. You know, the Lancre school for young witches. Think about it. Red hair, green eyes, female, magic. Her mother's short way with idiots. The full package."

"So no problems about a career, then." Vimes concluded.

"No. And while I'm sure you've considered this, Sir Samuel, it occurs to me that the chosen targets of these people are all to do with Johanna. They haven't taken a poke at _me_ yet, for instance. Or Emmanuelle. Or Olga or Irena. Or, apart from Precious, any of _your_ people. But they _have_ gone for the Ambassador. _Her uncle_. Julian. _Her cousin_. They murdered that young Wizard with the unfortunate resemblance to Ponder Stibbons. They chose to bomb the Zoo. Which is Johanna's life's work. They send parcel bombs. Not just to Johanna but also to Heidi."

Vimes considered this. He reflected that Assassins have their own channels of communication. He should not be surprised Alice was so well-informed.

"You may be right." He conceded. "But why bomb Vetinari?"

"Why not? It spreads alarm and panic and uncertainty. Ties down the Watch. While you're busy at the Palace, they can attack somewhere else. Besides, the Patrician's holding together the international debate about what to _do_ with them. Nobody agrees. And he wanted them hanged all along. Take him out, and that's _really_ serious disruption."

Vimes reflected that Alice would have at least completed the basic course in Political Expediency with Lady T'Malia. It paid to listen to intelligent well-informed speculation.

"Ok. So where does Precious fit in?"

Alice laughed.

"Sir Samuel. She's _black._ These people are racists. She's a successful black woman who makes them feel threatened. Do I have to spell it out?"

"OK, so assuming you're _right,_ Alice. Where, in your opinion, do they hit next?"

"It'll be to do with Johanna. If we don't get them _now,_ they'll either hit something else connected to her, or they'll make a direct attack."

Alice let her face go grim.

"And do you know what, sir Samuel?" she asked, in a low purposeful voice. "I really _want_ to be a godsmother to her child. I go back a long way with Johanna. Keeping her alive and seeing the baby safe is worth forty thousand, to _this_ cold-hearted callous old bitch!"

A watchman put his head around the door of the least Gate watch house and called for Vimes. He stubbed his cigar out.

"sir Samuel?" Alice called. He paused. "I'm sorry it's been a bit _quiet_ for the last couple of months. But you might be getting a couple more visitors at the Manor soon. I've got at least one promising candidate!"

Vimes grinned.

"I'll leave the lid off the dunnikin for them, Alice!" he promised.

* * *

Elsewhere in the City, Mariella Smith-Rhodes and her friend Rivka-bin-Divorah had a free late afternoon. They'd completed their prep early and had permission from their housemistress, Mlle de Badin-Boucher, to go into the city together, provided they returned in time for tea. They elected to spend the rare free time just walking around, browsing shop windows and market stalls. The city was getting back to normal again after the bombs of the morning and its usual street theatre was reasserting itself. They watched a guerrilla mime artiste perform for five minutes, under a hastily painted banner saying "Free the Mime!" Such people appeared randomly and sporadically, as a sort of underground protest against what they saw as the irrational, oppressive and wholly unfair treatment of their art. While the Watch was tied up elsewhere, they could pop up, perform a protest mime, and disappear again.

The girls watched for a minute or two. But there is only so much _attempting-to-escape-from-an-invisible-glass-cage_ that a free-spirited thirteen-year-old girl can stand. Vaguely disappointed nobody was attempting to make a citizen's arrest, they walked on down Embassy Row towards Eight Deadly Sins. Rivka had insisted on this, as it was the opposite direction from Small Gods and her Cenotine Temple.

" _Gevalt,_ they get me on a Saturday." she said. "That's enough."

Mariella gleaned that her friend Rivka was being schooled for a rites-of-passage ceremony that happened to Cenotine girls aged around thirteen. Things were complicated by her parents being back in Cenotia, but Rivka was gloomily sure they'd turn up on one of the Klatchian commercial carpet flights, full of anxious parental questions like _"Do they let you attend Temple regularly?"_ and _"Are you keeping a kosher diet?"_ and _"We don't mind you training as an Assassin, it's a profession, but promise me you marry a good Cenotine boy, in a profession, and keep the faith!"_

" _Bat-mitzvah_." she said. "I'm counted as legally adult. It's getting less stone age now, people are being more liberal about it and accepting it stands more of a chance if you get to have a say in the choice of your husband, but in the old days that would have meant facing up to being married off to some old man of thirty, and for me to start having babies. In the _really_ old days, as one of _several_ wives. _Oi vey._ Imagine me _pregnant_? Or having to do the _before_ stuff? With some old man of thirty?" **(1)**

"A good reason to stay et this school till you're eighteen." Mariella said, thoughtfully. "End et least I have two older sisters to give our parents grendchildren. Between Agnetha end Johanna they will hev six. My oldest brother has four. I consider getting into double figures with ten is enough for _eny_ grendparents. Even so, mother keeps demanding to know of my brother Danie why he is twenty-five end still single. _Eny_ young woman visiting the ferm is fair game."

Rivka considered this.

"Older sisters are useful." she said. "I've got three. Thirteen nephews and nieces. Birthdays get hard to remember."

" _Ja._ Johanna hes them marked on a large year-planner in her study. So es to send cards end gifts."

"And always they want more. Mothers. _Meschuggenah_."

They compared notes on mothers for a while.

"It drives Johanna nuts." Mariella said. "Now I'm ewey from home I begin to see why. Mother is continually writing to us. It is nice, but her letters are full of edvice, telling me to do well et school, telling me to fulfil everybody's expectations, telling me when I leave school I am to find a nice reliable man in a good profession end settle down with him end hev children, end not to leave it es late es my sister did, telling me to go to Kirk on Octeday, es a good Gods-fearing Boor woman should, end thet I should pay ettention especially in Miss Senderson-Reeves' clesses, end _learn to cook_ , es thet keeps a man. End she complains I do not write beck enough."

Mariella sighed.

"Johanna says it is es if she never left home end Mother is stending behind her ell the time, full of edvice end criticism end complaint, es if the fect she is several thousand miles ewey does not metter. She is _there_. Right behind you. All the time."

Rivka looked politely blank.

"And your point is?" she asked. Mariella remembered everything that was said about Cenotine mothers. She might have been describing Rivka's.

"I heard Johanna say the difference between a Boor mother, end a Ridgebeck with rabies, is thet the Ridgebeck eventually lets go."

Rivka nodded quiet self-aware comprehension.

"Now _that's_ the point." she said.

Bonded, the two walked on with that special sort of aimless all-the-time-in-the-world that teenage girls have in abundance.

They paused at a fabric stall. Mariella stood back while Rivka haggled over necessary personal maintenance items like needles, thread and cloth for patching and repairs. Words like _schmatter_ were spoken a lot. Mariella reflected that some of the more upmarket girls in their dorm had sneered at the Cenotine girl's ability with needle and thread, deeming it unsufferably proletarian. They had thought again after Matron Igorina had deftly removed a few deeply-inserted pins from Pamela Eorle, with Rivka professing innocent bafflement in front of Madame Deux-Epées as to how they had got there. And then, with the term's activities causing rips and wear and tears in working clothes, the same girls had seen the advantage of having somebody like Rivka on side, and had begged her to do the repair work. Rivka charged fair prices for clothing repairs and generously shared the benefits with Mariella, who with the experience of being part of a self-sufficient Veldt family, helped out with the less delicate work.

Mariella frowned, having the uneasy sensation that she was being followed and watched. She felt the reassuring pressure of the throwing knives strapped to her forearms, and reflected that two girls in Assassins' School walking-out uniforms were easily recognisable on the street. She thanked Madame for getting them permission to go armed, even though she suspected any attack could come out of nowhere and leave the advantage of surprise with their attackers. She also reflected that as a potential target for the bad men stalking her sister, there might be other things going on that she had not been informed about. Informal escorts shadowing them, perhaps. In which case it would be discreet and covert and there was little chance she'd spot it. Or else…

She tried to remember the faces of the four wanted men. She'd been shown the iconographs. Suddenly, the day seemed to get a little darker and gloomier.

* * *

"So a cart. Single horse. Cargo noted down as barrels and boxes. Escorted by four men. Passed through this gate on the night of the raid at Trawlers. Ten-fifty seven in the evening." Vimes summarised. He glared at the duty Gate constables.

"Well, at least you took a note." he said, with grudging approval. "Not _completely_ sloppy, then."

"Hardly conclusive, sir." Carrot said. "A bit circumstantial, in fact."

"But going back earlier, Carrot. Daytime two days before. Cart. Single horse. Escorted by four men. Cargo appeared to be miscellaneous domestic. Constable Hitchens noted "probably a house move". No contact with the men involved. This ties to the approximate time our suspects left the property in Snort Yard. The old lady neighbour was pretty definite. Said she was glad to see the back of them, bloody Howondalandians."

He looked a little happier. But, as Carrot reflected, it was all relative with Mr Vimes. And hard to tell, in any case.

"Gentlemen." Vimes said. "And miss Band. I think we're getting _leads_ now. We just need a few more to come in."

The next lead came from the Watchmen sent to track down the rental cart, for which the old lady in the Shades had memorised both the discreet owners' name and the cart number. They had tracked the name to Pickford and van Hurtz's Removal and Cart Rental Service, who operated out of a yard out on the fringes of Leastways. Cart Rental was a new trade in Ankh-Morpork. It operated on _trust,_ especially trust that the person renting a horse and cart would be motivated to return it when they were done. As Mr Pickford had pointed out to the Watchmen sent to ask, the _trust_ element was usually taken care of by asking for a large cash deposit or something of equivalent worth, which would be returned, less the actual rental fee, when an undamaged cart, pulled by the same horse that had left the yard, was returned in the given rental period.

As Constable Reg Shoe reported, Mr Pickford had claimed that it was _amazing_ what some people tried to get away with. Like trading a good horse in at Hobson's for a jaded nag plus some cash, then trying to claim the knackered old beast was the one that had been pulling the cart when they left. Or pranging it and claiming the damage had been there beforehand, look. Or nicking the toolkit or spare wheel, claiming it had never been there.

"Well, we get around that now by taking an iconograph of the horse as it leaves, and having them discreetly branded with a serial number and _"Property of Pickfords-Van Hurtz"."_ Reg had related Mr Pickford's words. "He also had a word with Hobson to point out his horses are all marked now. And they take clients round the vehicles and get them to sign a form saying the vehicle is fit for use and, for e.g., has minor damage _here, here,_ and _here_. Just so, he said, that we're _agreed._ That sort of thing."

"I see. And what can they tell us?" Vimes asked.

"Three days ago. Four men. Mr van Hurtz, being from Sto Kerrig, recognised them as Howondalandian and tried to get them talking in Kerrigian. Same language, near as. Said one had a battered face like he'd been in a fight. Looking at the leader he got an idea who he'd been in a fight _with_. Said he couldn't be sure, but the iconographs pretty much match the men he saw. Though their hair's grown out and they've got beards. Definitely Rimwards Howondalandian, he said. Spoke Kerrigian in a way that makes an educated man wince." **(2)**

Vimes grinned.

"Carry on, Reg." he said, in an excited voice.

"Well, mr van Hurtz asked what brought them to the city. The leader, the big ugly one, had a think. And then he said "Well, this undertaking business of the Patrician's. Lots of old buildings need to be pulled down. We're experienced demolition technicians. Need a good cart to carry the kit."

Vimes scowled.

"They said _that_ , did they?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir. And here's the twist. When they brought the horse and cart back, or one of them did, he paid off the rental fee in cash. Apparently they'd left the deposit in gold and jewellery. Mr van Hurtz didn't quibble about that, as it was ten times the worth of the horse and cart. They apologised for having no cash, you see, would that do? Well, Mr van Hurtz got one of his Dwarfs to check it out, the dwarf said it was legit and not a fake. But just to cover himself, he took an iconograph".

Reg provided it.

"He was surprised when the cart came back, to tell you the truth, as he'd have been happy to let this one go."

"I bet he was." Vimes said. He passed the iconograph to Carrot.

"Check this against descriptions of stolen items from the Great Train Robbery, would you, Carrot? Thanks."

"He apologises for having handed the stuff back. But the horse and cart came back in good nick and he had no reason to keep it. And he said, here's the funny thing. The man who brought the cart back and paid off the rental had bright yellow arms. Not hands or forearms, as if he'd been wearing gloves. But up past the elbow. Like terminally bad jaundice. When he saw Mr van Hurtz was looking, he put it down to industrial chemicals. "The sort you use in the demolition business", he said."

"Sir. Doctor Smith-Rhodes told me that people who handle certain explosives find it turns their skin bright yellow!" Carrot said, excited.

Vimes punched the air.

"We've nearly got them!" he shouted. Alice Band grinned.

"And the sheer bloody arrogance of them… "in the demolition trade". Why do they think they'll never get _caught_?" Vimes demanded.

And then Gooseberry and Pessimal were trying to attract his attention.

They handed him a standard Incident Report form. A Mrs Bellatrix Grundy of Tiptree Lane, Leastways, had called at the watch house that morning to complain about some uncouth neighbours, foreigners by the sound of them, who'd she suspected were running an unregistered business in a residential area. Apparently she'd been really i _ndignated_ by that. It was a nice area, she said, in Nap Hill Borders. Foul chemical odours in the night, people and carts coming and going at _all hours,_ it was really lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. Apparently she'd been round to complain, but the ruffian, the criminal type, didn't like the look of him one little bit, who'd opened the door, had been off-hand and rude with her. When she threatened to call the Watch to him, he'd said _"yaah, do that, lady."_ And added a foreign word that no doubt was _utterly_ obscene, which sounded like _foot-sack_.

The Watch, on a morning when bombs were going off everywhere, had graded this "low-priority" and promised to send somebody round when there was time. Everyone was on stand-by as really big things were happening in the City…

Vimes shook his head at the two hapless Watchmen.

"You weren't to know. An old lady with an old-lady grievance about the neighbours. Almost always low-priority. And if either of you had gone round knocking on _that_ door, you'd most likely be dead by now."

Vimes then said

"What are we waiting for, people? Arm up. Clacks the Yard. I want _troll_ officers here. And at least one golem."

He nodded to Alice.

"Miss Band, you might want to come along? As long as _we_ get them in the end, I don't mind you earning the Guild's money. A donation to Widows and Orphans would be appreciated, though."

"Johanna Smith-Rhodes mentioned it was ten per cent." Alice remarked. "I can live with that."

"I remember it as _twenty_." Vimes said. "Although we can discuss the fine details later." **(3)**

* * *

Rivka bin-Divorah concluded the transaction. She stowed her goods in a brown paper bag, then noted Mariella scanning the sparse crowd at the street-market.

"Problems?" she said.

" _Ja_. Almost certain we're being followed."

Rivka flexed her forearms thoughtfully. The steel of the blades against her arm was a reassurance. She scanned the street.

"Can't see anybody too obvious yet." She said. "Then again, if they're Guild, you wouldn't expect to."

In a louder voice she said "Should we start off back now? Mademoiselle Antoinette is expecting us back for tea. And you know how she _shouts_ if anyone annoys her."

" _Vachement! Vachement tabernak!"_ Mariella called. Rivka laughed.

" _Osti d'épais de marde! Je'men calice!"_ Rivka replied. **(4)** They moved down the street together, swapping Quirmian-Acerian profanities they knew, heading back towards Filigree Street and the Guild.

Unheeded in the crowd higher up the market-street, Preet du Plessis scowled to himself. His fingers relaxed on the one-shot crossbow in his pocket. He'd acquired this from somebody in the Troll's Head who'd annoyed him. It was a useful device. He was sure he could have hit the younger Smith-Rhodes girl from where he was standing. While her best missie was buying at the haberdashery stall. There would have been no art to it.

But the press of people. And the suspicion the Assassins' Guild had unseen people out, watching over the girl. The fact he hadn't seen any didn't mean they were not there. It would have been too dangerous. Not with the big one planned for a few nights from now.

Besides. It didn't do for a man of his age to be observed taking a keen interest in thirteen-year-old schoolgirls. That could be misinterpreted, and somebody might notice. And he'd seen what happened to fellows like that in prison. He'd done some of the "happening to" part himself, to break the monotony of prison stays and to assert his own place in the hierarchy.

He smiled. Mirthlessly. Killing the younger sister would be a serious message to the older that she was next. Learning that a younger Smith-Rhodes sister was in this town had been a pleasure.

He turned, and started to make a circuitous route back to the latest safe house. After the old lady had complained he had decided to abandon Leastways. She might really have followed through on her threat to go to the Watch. Although he'd guessed she wouldn't do it after midnight and save it for morning. Which had given them time to cook up the explosives, build the devices, then get out there and distribute them. Then to grab what they needed and move on. He'd left Benckel to take the cart back and reclaim the deposit, then follow on later to where the rest were grabbing some sleep. Which, he realised, he needed too. In this state, living a watchful fugitive life, you could slip up so easily. Do, or say, something that people remembered. Got you _identified._

He stifled a yawn, and quickened his pace.

* * *

Vimes growled in frustration. Again they'd found the place they wanted. Cheery Littlebottom had confirmed the premises had been used to manufacture exothermic alchemy reagants. Clear traces everywhere. Even some dumped Agatean clay. Acid marks etched into a table. Chemical spills on the floor. They hadn't made the slightest effort to clear up after them and make it difficult for the Watch.

But the rest was clean.

"Stand down, people." Vimes directed. "We'll keep a presence here. In case they come back."

Alice Band shook her head.

"Not blaming you, Alice. Your information was good. I'll tell Downey that, if it helps. Thank you."

"They're still one step ahead, though." she sighed. "And I tell you what. One of them dared to look that terrifying old lady from down the street right in the eye and tell her to… well, you know."

" _ **Voetsaak.** "_ Vimes said, filling in the blank. "You must have heard Johanna say it?"

Alice smiled.

"But not even _Johanna_ would have said it to the face of Mrs Bellatrix Grundy. That's why I know we're dealing with nutcases here."

Sam Vimes had to concede that to be true. Mrs Grundy had been mollified to discover Commander Vimes himself responding to her complaint. He had allowed her the courtesy of berating him and meekly took it, reflecting she didn't know how lucky she had been, not to have been killed outright on the doorstep. He allowed her to unwittingly celebrate her good luck by shouting at him for a few minutes. Better than dealing with her corpse.

* * *

And word went out, among the desperate, the thuggish, and those with little to lose, that an out-of-town gang was recruiting for a job. Some of the more thuggish and desperate responded.

* * *

 **(1)** The bit yairm210 drew attention to. And a reader based, as I gather, in Israel, should **know**. Apologies, but my research pointed me to interesting snippets in the Wikipedia article on Judaism and marriage that said arranged marriages between older men and relatively young girls, of an age we would today consider to be still children, were commonplace in German and Polish Jewish communities until well into the nineteenth century. (And to compare, Britain had no such thing as a minimum age of consent as we know it today, until the late 1800's). I reasoned it would be "appropriate" for the context - the Discworld appears to convey a lot of the moral and social values of Western Europe around 1900 - for this to be reflected in a parellel community. And I'm still hazy as to how and when the polygamy of the Old Testament Biblical Patriarchs died out and was replaced with monogamy. Still researching!

 **(2)** This is pretty much how educated Dutch people think of Afrikaans. They can understand it but it sounds a bit brutal and primitive to Dutch ears. A Dutch friend said "In your country you have _Birmingham,_ ja? You also have _Glasgow,_ which sounds menacing? Now imagine what Afrikaans sounds like to us." Sorry, South African friends.

 **(3)** See my story _**"Why and Were".**_ In which an Assassin, on Watch duty, discusses with Vimes about the protocol concerned in a Watch member accepting a reward. Apparently Watch policy is that if there's a reward put up by concerned citizens and a Watchman earns it legitimately in the course of duty, that's fine, but you pay a tithe to the W&O fund.

 **(4)** You may not want to know. French-Canadian readers, I apologise.


	12. Of Guild politics A quiet interlude

_**Nothing to it, really! 12.**_

 _ **Vereyminor edit, spotted a glaring error. Corrected it.**_

 _ **Moving the story on to the conclusion with mayhem, fighting, and (no spoilers). People will get hurt. Including the good guys. No getting around this. Setting up with a couple of gentler episodes and glimpses of life in the Assassins' School.**_

 _ **Ground rules: condense to**_

 _ **Drink Rooibuis tea.**_

 _ **And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale in at most another two chapters and perhaps an Afterword.**_

 _At the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy, evening._

Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes had placed his makeshift Embassy guardsmen on full alert and increased patrol frequencies. He had watched as the Clacks tower on top of the roof clattered into action, sending out messages, periodically receiving replies. Angua von Überwald had assured him the problem dogs would now be docile and responsive to consistent firm handling. He had asked her to very discreetly report back to Commander Vimes on the unexpected arrival of a Very Important Person, who would be a magnet for any further assassination attempts. She had grinned back.

"Lively old chap, isn't he?" she said. She had met him briefly when the President had unconcernedly ambled over to take a closer look at the dogs. Knowing that just before Angua had arrived, there had been a kennel full of homicidally murderous canines, Julian had died a thousand deaths inside, not wanting to be known as the ex-military attaché with a formerly high-flying career, who'd let the Head of State be ripped apart by killer guard-dogs. But the Ridgeback he'd chosen had tamely allowed the President to pat his head and scratch behind his ear, tongue lolling out and panting slightly, as if pleased to see an old friend.

The President had then been gallant and congenial to Angua, noting that the Ankh-Morpork Embassy appeared to have a talent for retaining extremely attractive blonde women, and if he were forty years younger…

"A pleasure to meet you, Captain von Überwald!" he concluded, tipping the metaphorical hat. Julian noted he hadn't been introduced to her by name but seemed to know _exactly_ who she was. That she wasn't Embassy staff, and he evidently knew it, didn't seem to bother him in the least.

Julian was not especially surprised a little later when an unremarkable all-black coach turned up at the gate and the occupant politely requested admission. Called to the Gate, Julian considered shouting the Guard to attention and for them to present arms. Then he reflected on the virtues of anonymity, and simply waved for the gates to be opened. As the coach passed, he discreetly saluted. A languid arm waved acknowledgement. Julian fell in behind at a jogging trot and managed to be on the steps as the coach drew up, telling a guard to brief the Ambassador that Lord Vetinari had arrived, and would be seeking an audience.

"Ah. Captain Smith-Rhodes." Vetinari said, pleasantly. "I wish I were meeting you in more pleasant circumstances."

"So do I, my lord." Julian replied. The patrician looked at him with sympathy.

"Six men killed. Eight wounded. A grievous blow for any military unit. I do note you took strenuous steps to rebuild your numbers quickly. Albeit _unorthodox_ ones."

The Patrician's gaze took in a section consisting of Private van Puhler, Private M'Buto and First Liutnant Lutyens. They looked as oddly assorted as anything the City Watch could present. The three fell in behind Julian.

"Liutnant Lutyens is primarily here as Trade Secretary, sir." Julian remarked. His only other officer, discounting the half-insane Verkramp of BOSS, was a small, slight, bespectacled man in his late thirties with receding hair. Physically he had something in common with Inspector Pessimal of the Watch. Julian knew he'd done his National Service in the Pay Corps and had supervised nothing more martial than the weekly pay parade. But an officer was an officer, and Edouard had kept his old uniform in the wardrobe. And he wasn't from BOSS, which had also been a consideration.

"I remember. The Trade Secretary at an Embassy, among other things, has the responsibility of promoting his nation's exports and facilitating exports and sales."

Vetinari nodded at Lutyens.

"I was most taken with the slogan you devised for sales of Green Rooibos tea." Vetinari remarked. "I believe it has a marked diuretic effect. Advertising it, for medical reasons, no doubt, as _The Taste Of the Dark Incontinent,_ was inspired." **(1)**

"It tripled sales, my Lord." Lutyens said, with modest acceptance of the praise.

"Never overestimate the sense of humour of the Ankh-Morpork public." Vetinari remarked, drily. He turned to the other two.

"Mr van Puhler." He said. "I won't insult you by asking if you're too _old_ for this sort of thing. Evidently not, as I note the uniform fits, and you carry it with pride."

The old man beamed.

"I shall remind Drumknott that a few more cases of that excellent Mouton de Rothschild Spatzendreck **(2)** from the Barossa valley could be brought in for the Palace cellars. So popular at parties, I find."

"By eppointment to the Pelece, sir?" the old vintner asked, hopefully.

"I see no reason why not." Vetinari said, generously. He turned to the third man.

"Private M'Buto, sir." Julian said. "Formerly of the Forty-Third Auxiliary Kommando, based in Bulawayo in Smith-Rhodesia."

Vetinari nodded. "Smith-Rhodesia." he said, turning the name over as if the association had just occurred to him. "I see."

M'Buto stamped to a very precise attention. Julian noted that in uniform, there was no trace of servility in the man.

"Eight years in the service of the Smith-Rhodes family, Baas!" he said, proudly. Vetinari noted the distinction, but said nothing. "Combat with the bloody Matabels on one border, end with the bloody Zulus on the other. Baas!"

"And when not in uniform, your job here was?"

"I was a gardener here, sir. Man has family to feed, man does what he can. Baas!"

Julian noted the Acting Ambassador and Lady Friejda rushing to the door to welcome the _other_ unexpected guest.

"I'm sure you served with pride and distinction. Capital!"

Vetinari turned to acknowledge the Ambassadorial party. He said to Julian, in a low voice:

"Do take care, Captain Smith-Rhodes. You are a young man of remarkable talent. I fear that now you have come to the attention of the Bureau of State Security for your unorthodox recruitment of personnel, BOSS will _certainly_ be watching your back. _As should you._ Ah, Ambassador! Lady Friejda!"

* * *

 _The Guild of Assassins, the next morning._

Johanna Smith-Rhodes found she had most of her morning free after taking a single classroom-based lesson. It would have been a period of Unorthodox Combat Training until lunch. But this was something her pregnancy prevented her from participating in. Miss Pretty Butterfly was covering this class with tuition in Mixed Martial Arts. Butterfly had learnt from Johanna: at _sensei_ level in at least three disciplines, she saw the virtues of combining her separate proficiencies, switching between modes as combat dictated and pragmatically using what worked, be it karate, ju-jitsu or kung-fu. As she put it, citing the great philosopher Ly Tin Wheedle, if a _sensei_ blinds himself to new ideas by pushing his head so far up his own fundament so that he cannot see them, then he is no longer _sensei._ **(3)**

Seeing the morning drag on in the staffroom, marking student work and breathing in second-hand smoke, she therefore accepted Joan Sanderson-Reeves' invitation to sit in on an advanced planning committee meeting.

"Forward planning for the School, m'dear." Joan said. "You've got a sharp mind, it'll keep you gainfully occupied, and it'll keep your mind off things."

Johanna had agreed, and found herself in a committee room with some very senior Assassins and House tutors, debating the waiting list for School places for future academic years.

She wasn't greatly surprised to see it involved pencilling in prestigious Names like various Eorles, Selachiis, Venturis, Rusts, Hargarths, Omniuses and Lavishes for their expected years of entry. Without, she reflected, any entrance exam or basic tests of proficiency or aptitude. Just having the Name and enough cash behind them for the School fees was seemingly enough.

 _Ag, no wonder so many of them are idiots with an exaggerated sense of entitlement,_ she thought. She looked down the long table and her eyes met Joan's. Joan's face had a slightly amused look, which said _This is eighty per cent of Dark Council work, my dear. Hardly glamorous or exciting._ For a moment, Johanna wondered if this was some kind of practical test of her, sounding her out for eventual Dark Council membership in her own right. Then she dismissed the thought, and reflected that at least she was getting an idea of what sort of idiots would be arriving at the School in coming years.

She noted that there was a theoretical veto on any of the big family Names which could be raised at any time. Hearing the name of a spectacularly odious Venturi child who she knew was currently a spoiled brat of eight, she considered speaking up on behalf of the rank-and-file Teachers who would have to seek to _educate_ the brat.

"Doctor Smith-Rhodes?" Lord Downey asked her. Johanna sighed.

"Is it going to be disruptive to the flow of this discussion, if I were to say thet I hev _met_ Miss Olivia Georgina Venturi, end I find her to be a specteculary obnoxious end unpleasant little… _child_?" she asked, pointedly.

Downey looked at the Guild Bursar, Mr Wimvoe, who looked back with an expression of alarm. He obviously hadn't been expecting dissent.

"Inside pocket on the left, old chap." Downey said, gently. The bursar scrabbled for the little green bottle of Dried Frog Pills. Joan Sanderson-Reeves helpfully poured him a glass of water.

" _Fees,_ Master." he said, eventually. "The possibility of Venturi family charitable donations. And social expectations."

Johanna sighed. She'd raised the objection to Olivia Georgina Venturi just to see what would happen if anyone ever tried to _veto_ a high-status candidate. And not out of any expectation the child would be turned down.

"End she's stupid. Thick es a plenk." Johanna added.

"Well… that's what we _do_ here, Doctor Smith-Rhodes. Educate people." The Compte de Yoyo said, placatingly.

"Which depends on there being a cepecity in the individual to _eccept_ education." Johanna pointed out.

Downey frowned, gravely.

"Who is our _least_ senior housemistress at the moment? Things are changing so quickly."

"Mademoiselle de Badin-Boucher, Master." Joan said, neutrally.

"Pencil Miss Olivia Georgina Venturi into Black Widow House, if you please. For three academic years hence." Downey requested. He looked at Johanna again. She shrugged.

Johanna thought he was about to make a statement like "It isn't _just_ about education. We have to think of the social exclusivity of our School, and about the revenue students bring with them." But he moved on.

"Next category: relatives of graduate Assassins and members of proven family lines." he said. "Do we have any as yet unconsidered candidates to pencil in?"

"Well, there's at least _one_." Mr Mericet remarked, looking at Johanna. She wondered, very briefly, why everyone was now looking at her. Then realised.

"Well, thet's et least eleven years hence." Johanna said, realising.

"We seek to plan early, Doctor. And as the soon-to-be parent of a child, I'm pleased to be able to remind you that in your case discounted fees would apply. Would you object if we pencilled your son, or daughter, in with a guaranteed School place in eleven years time?"

"Not et ell." Johanna replied, politely. "Es long es you realise thet if a son takes efter his father end not me, the University would hev en interest. It recommends schools for young men with megickel telent."

"And a _daughter_ with magic?" Joan asked. She knew the Assassins' School could not accept pupils with magical potential. Things got _disruptive_ , or had the promise of becoming so.

Johanna shrugged. "They sey the Quirm Ecedemy for Young Ladies hes the expertise, now, to deal with megic. They hev a visiting teacher, a Miss Tick, who edvises on the development of potential witches. I understend this involves terms of work experience in Lencre, under skilled guidance."

"Oh, yes." Joan said, thoughtfully. "Perspicacia Tick. Knew the gel when I was there. She turned out well, all things considered!"

"So we have a one-in three chance of teaching your child, then." Downey said, smiling slightly.

"One in _four_." Johanna corrected him. "The _fourth_ elternative is to send him or her to school in Rimwards Howondaland."

Johanna, who had agreed with Ponder this was only a remote possibility, appreciated watching Downey wince.

"These days we hev _good_ schools." she assured him.

"Moving on." Downey said, swiftly. "In principle, we also pencil in the children of Doctor Bellamy and the Comptesse de Lapoignard for the same school year? Any thoughts on their Houses? Your preference, Johanna, for your own?"

"If female, end if she wishes, end is eble, to ettend here. Raven House." Johanna said, firmly. "If a son. No preference."

Her intentions were noted down. Emmanuelle's unborn child was to be offered Black Widow if a girl, House of his mother's choice if male. It was accepted Dr Bellamy's child would, like the older brothers, be a day pupil. Joan could deal with that.

"A good set of pupils, the Bellamy brothers." somebody said. "Not stellar, just all-round competent. Pleasant lads, too."

"A credit to Davinia, certainly." Joan said. "Now the Wiggs child? Good family, good Guild reputation, nephew of Mr Wiggs, cousin of young Jocasta and her brothers? Shall we say an all-round good bet and a good investment?"

Johanna let her interest slide away again during this part of the discussion. Children of Assassins in good standing with the Guild, or belonging to parents with a Reputation, were always accepted. Even on scholarships or bursaries paid from the Widows and Orphans fund. The Guild believed in a specific sort of genetic inheritance supported by environmental factors during upbringing. _Nature and nurture,_ thought Johanna, a zoologist. And _I know the fees this school charges. Ag, another big expense. The Quirm Academy is also prestigious. And charges fees to match. We will need to start saving for it now. Again I will need to bring in a big-money contract just to be sure. There is also the probability of siblings._ She shuddered _. Doing all this all over again. Ag!_

"And finally. The issue of overseas students, which as you all know involves the reward of high guaranteed fees, matched with the need to pay very close attention to political realities and nuances." Downey said. "I note the Paramount Kingdom of Matabeleland wishes to send pupils to this School for the first time. It can guarantee to pay fees for four. Opinions?"

"Given the Kingdom's economic woes, I suggest it would be prudent to get the money up front." Mr Wimvoe said, insistently. Downey nodded assent.

"Accepted. But I have been in discussions at the Palace, and Lord Vetinari assures me the fees for four pupils will be backed by guarantees. He has asked me if there is any way in which the total number can be expanded to eight, in line with the quota we accept from the Zulu Empire and from Rimwards Howondaland. His Lordship sees virtue in children from the three main nations of Howondaland being educated side-by-side for seven years."

"Three nations otherwise locked in a dance of mutual hostility." Mr Mericet observed. "Which periodically flares up into, ah, _border disputes_. Which cannot be called "war", despite the bloodshed, as the diplomatic formalities of actually _declaring_ a war are invariably bypassed."

Johanna frowned.

"If His Lordship considers this hes long-term benefits, could it be suggested to him thet eny financial aid offered to the Metebels includes a component to pey for educating selected citizens in Enkh-Morpork?" she asked. "In internetionel terms, four School Fees for seven years ere a drop in the bucket."

" _Another_ four." Downey said, correcting her.

"Overseas aid." somebody said. "Your tax dollars in action."

Joan Sanderson-Reeves shifted in her seat.

"You're not making another raid on the Scholarship fund here?" she said, meaningfully. "You know as well as I do, Donald, that our emphasis with the Fund, _for which we are both trustees_ , should be on giving a chance to poor, unconnected, but _bright_ , candidates from _this_ continent!"

Downey retreated. "I'll speak to His Lordship again." he soothed her. "And on reflection, there will be benefactors who might be prevailed upon to, er, _sponsor_ the education of a Howondalandian child."

"The parents of Olivia Georgina Venturi, perheps?" Johanna asked, in a helpful voice.

Downey gave her a reassuring smile.

"I'm glad you're here, Doctor Smith-Rhodes." he said, in a friendly way. She tensed, waiting for the sting in the tail.

"Now our Howondalandian bureaus are currently supervising the assessment process for candidates from the Zulu Empire and from your own country of Rimwards Howondaland." he began. "The Empire provides up to two hundred candidates for a place, who are gradually whittled down to a final eight. Who's in charge there? Oh yes. Miss Precious Jewel N'Khazi. One of your first graduates, I believe, Johanna?"

Johanna winced. Precious Jewel belonged to a past life, when her White Howondalandian attitudes had been more _unreformed._ She didn't like to be reminded as to how this had fouled up the teacher-pupil relationship. **(4)**

"Has a terse relationship with her half-sister Ruth N'Kweze." Joan summarised. "Doesn't like the fact Ruth got to be Paramount Crown Princess, and she _didn't_. I just _bet_ her father engineered that to get his two Assassin daughters watching their backs for each other, and not making any bids for their _next_ promotion!" **(5)**

"And strange how, after rigorous selection, at least two candidates in every batch seem to be Princes or Princesses." Compte de Yoyo observed.

And our preselection processes are _different_ , how exactly?" Joan said, with a smile.

"And the parallel process in Rimwards Howondaland gave us, among many other sterling people, Miss Heidi van Kruger." Downey observed. "As well as some notable current students. Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes of Black Widow House, for one."

He looked at Johanna and smiled.

"I have been approached by a highly-placed person in your nation." He said, pleasantly. "Who is prepared to sponsor the education of a young lady who he feels has got great potential for the Guild. Now this would be an unprecedented _ninth_ pupil from your country in her year, and could cause problems with going over-quota. But the candidate is of great interest and I'm very keen to accept her for training. I'd be interested in hearing your opinion."

"Go on." Johanna said, cautiously.

"A Miss Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Majaandie, from Piemburg." Downey continued, in the same pleasant voice. "What can you tell us about her?"

Every eye turned to watch Johanna. _Damn him, he even pronounced her name correctly._

"It's bleddy Onkle Charles, isn't it?" Johanna demanded. "Onkle Charles Smith-Rhodes! He's paying her fees!"

Downey shook his head.

"Client confidentiality precludes, Doctor Smith-Rhodes. But as you have been made aware, a close blood relative of a graduate Assassin with a fearsomely good reputation is always of great interest to us. Your younger sister is universally well-thought of, after all. Could I prevail on you for a reference?"

Johanna scowled. Then composed herself, explaining this was her oldest niece, the eldest in that new generation of the Family, who would carry the honoured name of Johanna Smith-Rhodes in memory of the woman who had founded that family branch, over a century before. What could she say? Her sister Agnetha had opted to stay at home and live a quiet life as wife of our father's trusted farm manager. She has five children with Kurt Majaandie, her husband. Do not make the mistake of thinking she is _only_ a wife and mother. On the border, _every_ woman knows how to swing a machete and use a crossbow. You never know when you need to do this in earnest. Or use the machete for something other than hacking undergrowth. Agnetha would have encouraged all her children, as they grew, to learn weapon skills. In case of an attack from over the River. If not her, than _definitely_ Barbarossa, their grandfather. The young Johanna, almost ten years old, would be able to run two miles quickly without gasping for breath. To saddle and ride a horse. To repair her own clothing and boots. To put five crossbow bolts into a tight grouping in a human-shaped target. To stare down a Ridgeback puppy and dominate it, to make the dog _hers_. She, Auntie Johanna, had taken the girl up-country for a day and a night, sorry it could not have been longer. She has good camp disciplines and can watch a pride of lions, unobserved and unsmelt by them, as they hunt. She has a keen intelligence and wishes to see the world and knows two of her aunts are in Ankh-Morpork, so it is possible for a Boor girl from the Veldt to break out and find wider horizons. What else do you wish to know?

"Do you think she would _thrive_ here, Johanna?" Joan Sanderson-Reeves asked, with careful politeness.

Johanna paused for an instant.

" _Ja."_ She said, reflecting that Agnetha would have to part with her daughter, even to a boarding school nearer home, sooner or later. It was a matter of distance, that was all. And Uncle Charles, in his way, was _insistent_ when he made decisions on behalf of the Family. _Decision's made. May as well make the best of this._ "I believe she would. End I wish her to go to Raven House. Femily essociation, es you say."

* * *

Johanna read the _**Times**_ in the staffroom. The headlines were about the previous day's bombs and disruption. Everything had become quiet since, but the newspaper noted that the Watch and other City agencies were on alert for anything new happening. A sub-headline was **BUSINESS AS USUAL! SAYS PALACE**. Lord Vetinari was prominently iconographed, gravely surveying the ruin of the Palace garden, and a wall full of broken windows. He had issued a statement to the effect that he had every confidence in the ability of Sir Samuel Vimes to run down and catch the men responsible. His coach had been seen leaving in the direction of Scoone Avenue in the late afternoon, the _**Times**_ reported, speculating that he was attending the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy to offer official sympathy there after the attack. The Pegasus horses had been observed coming and going and one had landed at the Embassy, no doubt as a goodwill gesture to Rimwards Howondaland to allow the fastest possible communications with home in a time of emergency. Sir Samuel Vimes and Watch teams had been following up possible leads around the City, locations undisclosed, but information will follow as we have it.

Still feeling irritation at Uncle Charles and his incessant manipulation of the wider Family, she went for lunch, joining Alice Band at the Tump House top table, chatting about School business with Alice and her upper-sixth girls, the ones who were soon to do the Final Run. It was a pleasant lunch. Afterwards, privately, Alice briefed her on what the _**Times**_ had not been able to say, concerning the two raids that had arrived just too late.

"Be careful, Johanna." she advised. "They're coming for you. We're keeping a close watch. You can probably tell?"

" _Ja."_ Johanna replied. She'd sensed a discreet informal escort nearby when out on the street. She'd seen some of them but by no means _all_ , which assured her there were some good people out there. She also knew her neighbour Davinia Bellamy was offering house-room to Guild operatives who were keeping the street under watch. It was a comforting thought that a squad of Assassins was two doors away, on some sort of alert. She also suspected a few people doing unremarkable things like walking dogs on the Tump, overlooking her home, were more than they seemed. But any attacker would inevitably have surprise on their side, and be able to choose the battleground.

She itched for the final showdown. Just to clear the _verdammte_ business up, count the bodies, or else the living prisoners, and then to get on with life. Uncomfortably, she felt like a spectator, wanting to get in there with the team, but sidelined, in this case by her advanced pregnancy.

She sighed. In the afternoon, she needed to be at the Guild's horse stud, at Garstairs on the Rimwards slope of the Tump. It had been suggested that one thing she could usefully do was to stand or sit at the arena ringside, watching a class of novice horse-riders trotting in a perpetual circle, and advise on things like posture, command, and rein discipline. She didn't quibble; it put her a relatively short distance from home at the end of the day.

She took the School omnibus over to Garstairs with the class of pupils scheduled for equestrian lessons. Aware of their eyes on her for various reasons and aware of the Graduate Assassin detailed to act as her bodyguard, she settled into a largely silent journey, wishing the seats on these things could be made more comfortable. _Much_ more comfortable.

* * *

Working alone at 18 Spa Lane, Claude the butler double-checked that none of the other staff were nearby. He closed the living room door for privacy, then reached up and took down a crossbow from the displayed weapons on the wall. He tested its action, cocked it, sighted, and dry-fired. The mechanism clunked, and he swiftly re-cocked, sighted on an imaginary target, and dry-fired again. He clicked the release catch on the stock and the bayonet of last resort clunked into place on its spring-loaded mechanism, ten inches of very sharp honed steel. He dummied a few thrusts, then smiled and clicked it back into its recess inside the stock.

He replaced the crossbow on the wall, assured himself that his copy of the key that opened the baas-lady's armoury worked **(6)** and he had access to ample bolts, then took down a machete from the wall. He parried a few blows and thrusts, smiling as the old training came back to him.

The former Sergeant Claude N'Gemini, late of an auxiliary infantry battalion from Smith-Rhodesia, a man who had sworn his loyalty not so much to to the Staadt as to the Smith-Rhodes family, nodded with satisfaction. He now understood why the Ambassador, the baas-fella Mr van der Graaf, had sent him here to serve his baas-lady. He knew a fight was going to come down sooner or later, involving the baas-lady. And she was both a good baas and a Smith-Rhodes. He would, if it came to it, fight for her. And on his training nights at the Guild of Butlers, Gentleman's Gentlemen and Senior Domestic Servants, Mr Willikins was _pleased_ to demonstrate other little skills a butler could deploy in service of his baas. Strictly unofficially and off the set curriculum. Mr Willikins only taught them to _selected_ people, butlers who served masters who led hazardous lives. Butlers with pasts. Mr Willikins had detected his past _early_. Mr Willikins was a man Claude respected.

He replaced the machete and then went about his butlering duties. Dorothea would, he knew, have something good on the table for the servants' lunch. It was something to look forward to. A taste of Home, like _dovi_ or _sadza_ with named meat, hopefully goat.

* * *

The Rimwards part of the Tump, in Ankh, is the city's equestrian centre. Everything here revolves around horses. The Racecourse is a prominent feature, and it is surrounded by studs, stables, training arenas, and all the usual fringe businesses serving the horsey world: tack shops, vets' offices, turf accountants, Igors for horses and unlucky riders, and a discreet abbatoir and petfood manufacturers for perpetually losing or otherwise unlucky horses. A Quirmian butchers shop is necessarily discreet, operating from a side-street in unmarked premises and serving a discerning clientele. Harry King maintains a sub-depot here for substances of interest harvested from the stables and streets. **(7)** A short canter down Endless Street and Stablemaster Road leads to the Deosil Gate, on the other side of which is New Ankh and then eventually open country, fit for exercising horses outside the city.

The Guild of Assassins maintains a stable at Garstairs, used for the ongoing training of pupils in accordance with the Concordat requirement that states every young Lady and Gentleman should be able to ride, as befits their place in society. **(8)** Garstairs is on the lower Rimward slopes of the Tump, on the very outskirts of the equestrian zone.

Johanna spent an hour and a half sitting on the edge of the ring, watching a class of first-year pupils as they trotted horses round the circuit, calling criticism and improvement to the riders, and wishing she could be up on horseback herself with a horizon to aim at and plenty of scope for a gallop. Finally, her allocated class over, she delivered concluding words and supervised the riders in returning the horses to stable and cleaning down, ensuring good habits of caring for the horses and stable management were being learnt. **(9)**

After seeing the class off, Johanna watched the next class, a group of third-year pupils, as they disembarked from the School omnibus. Mr Harvey-Smith, the Guild's Equestrian Master, nodded a friendly greeting to her. He was a former showjumper who taught things like jumping, formal dressage, capriole, courbette, levade, piaffe and passage. And when all the poncy affected stuff that earns points was done with, he also taught people how to ride _properly_.

"Thanks for helping out. I think I know what you need." he said, practically. Harvey-Smith, a surprisingly thickset man from up towards Lancre, could match people to horses in the same way the Librarian could match people to books. As the omnibus changed loads, he indicated the incoming students.

"Saw it in the wife when she was expecting. Learnt all the stuff about taking it easy is all very well, but ye Gods, you need exercise, or you go Bursar. Thought, stuff the doctor's advice. Get her in the saddle. Did her the world of good." He grinned. "This lot are going out on a group ride. If I get you a good horse, fancy escorting? You can never have too many escorts."

She leapt at the chance. Getting to ride for a good two hours…

"See your sister's in this class." Harvey-Smith noted. "She's good. Runs in the family."

Johanna winced inwardly. She'd had the frank talk with Mariella about the expectations on her, concerning living up to the family name and that inevitably she would be judged against her older sister whatever she did. Johanna had been keen to find out if this placed her sister under undue and undeserved pressure. She had been pleased when Mariella had reflected on this and said "Yes. I know. The only way out is for me to make my own name in my own right."

 _And soon there will be another Johanna Smith-Rhodes here at this school. Ag, the weight of expectations people will place on the girl, even if they do not consciously intend to. Downey is already doing it and he has not even met her yet._ Johanna extended the thought to encompass a possible daughter. It made her frown.

And now a group of twenty third year pupils, boys and girls, were gathered around Mr Harvey-Smith, listening to his instructions and expectations of the day. Soon he'd be leading them to the stables and allocating mounts. In the background, a group of senior pupils, sixth formers allowed to stable theory own horses here as a privilege **(10)** , were saddling mounts and leading them out.

Johanna listened with half an ear.

" _Miss Smith-Rhodes! Are you paying attention?"_ It was an annoyed teacher's classroom voice. Johanna jumped, then realised it wasn't meant for her. She sent an annoyed glare at her sister.

"I epologise, sir." Mariella said, meekly. "You were speaking ebout the importance of road discipline end riding in single file, spaced et ten-yard intervals, being eware of other road traffic, end thet the lest rider in the group wears a red fleg to elert other road users."

Harvey-Smith grunted, mollified. Johanna relaxed slightly.

"And there I was, thinking you were watching the boys over there." He said. Members of the class giggled and sniggered. Mariella reddened slightly and then came back with

"Yes, sir. I was."

"Well, at least you're being honest about it…"

"To be precise, I was wetching their _horses._ Excuse me, sir, but there eppears to be something wrong with the lest horse in line, over there. Its owner is controlling it with a little more firmness than it perhaps needs. The horse is expressing discomfort. The rider leading it by the reins appears not to have noticed this, end is impatient."

Harvey-Smith watched for a moment. His expression darkened slightly.

"Assuming you're correct, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Where do you think the problem is?"

"The horse is favouring its rear right leg. The problem is in the… lower leg. Excuse me, sir, in my language it is _de koot_. Possibly in the hoof."

"The _pestern_." Johanna translated. "Learn the word, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Do not assume people here speak _Vondalaans_."

Harvey-Smith nodded. "Rear-right pastern, possibly hoof. OK."

He cupped his hands and shouted.

"Mr Bradley! Walk your horse over here, if you'd be so kind? Thank you. Won't take a moment."

He nodded at Mariella.

"Now you've raised the matter, young lady, make a diagnosis. In your own time. You're in charge."

Mariella requested the bemused Bradley to lift the rear right leg of his horse so she could look at the leg and hoof. Bemused, he looked at Harvey-Smith, who was steadying it at the head.

"Do as she asks." he said, watching.

Mariella crouched and studied the leg. She touched it, gently. The horse shifted with discomfort.

"Does enyone hev a sherp knife?" she asked. Bradley looked down at her, looking alarmed, and was about to speak.

"I need to clean some pecked earth end grit out." she explained. "I think I know whet is wrong here. I cennot be sure until the site is clean."

Johanna, who had also made a shrewd guess, passed a dagger down to her sister. Mariella scraped away for a while.

"I em sorry, sir." she said. "Egain I do not know the Morporkian words. Et home we would cell this _ontsteking van hoef van paard."_

Johanna sighed and translated.

" _Laminitis."_ she said. "A local inflammation underneath the hoof resulting in infection. Egain, learn the Morporkian, Miss Smith-Rhodes."

"And how do we deal with it, Miss Smith-Rhodes?" Harvey-Smith asked. His attitude said he'd already worked it out, but he was expecting Mariella to know too.

Mariella was already rotating the tip of her sister's blade against the solid hoof.

"We relieve the inflemmetion. Ellow the material trepped underneath to escape. Or else infection means the whole hoof detaches. The horse is in severe pain end unable to walk. It will need to be humanely destroyed."

Harvey-Smith looked gravely at Bradley.

"And you were planning to _ride_ this horse today? She'd have thrown you, lad. And this might have gone un-noticed. Well, we all live and learn."

There was a groan of disgust from the class as organic matter spurted through the hole Mariella had drilled. A little blood followed.

"We need to disinfect the wound now." she said. "I believe this was the only infection site."

The horse rested its hoof, seeming relieved and able to bear its weight.

"Job for you, mr Bradley." Harvey-Smith directed. "See Fossick, the stable-boy. He's got common remedies available, and he'll show you what to do. You might want to thank this young lady, before you go. Saved your horse. And saved _you_. And I'd like to know where she learnt that."

"On the Veldt, et home." Mariella said. "To be lost in the veldt fifty miles from home with a lame horse is not a small thing. You learn ebout horses."

"Or you cen _die_." Johanna said. "Make thet a cless lesson. Your life may one day rely on how good your horse is. Riding is not just a pleasant recreation."

Mr Harvey-Smith clapped his hands.

"Now that's sorted out!" he said, pleasantly. "And I hope you all learnt the lesson there. Which is _look after your horse_. And your horse will look after you. And very impressive, young lady. Didn't put a foot wrong. Except in one respect."

He turned to the class. "How many of you do _not_ have Morporkian as your first language?" he asked. Several hands were raised. He grinned.

"Special assignment for you. I want you to learn the parts of the horse. Not in your own languages. _In Morporkian_. Or else, if Doctor Smith-Rhodes wasn't here to translate, we'd have been floundering, trying to make out what the young lady was getting at. Wouldn't hurt if you looked up common ailments of the horse and learnt those too. _All_ of you. How to identify. How to treat, if you can. When to refer to a vet. And I _will_ test you. Now let's get you all saddled up, shall we?"

* * *

Mariella rode with her compatriot Trudi van Stijler. They discussed the general standard of horsemanship among their Central Continent fellows. They were not flattering.

"If this is the standard of their cavalry, no wonder we won the War of Independence." Trudi said, dismissively. Mariella made a non-commital noise.

"Those who are born to it, like we are, are good." she said.

"Too few of them." Trudi remarked. "We ran rings around them. Do you think we could get away with a gallop sometime?"

Mariella looked around them. They'd made their way to open fields outside the city. The space was liberating.

"Too many fences." Mariella said. "Old Harvey-Smith ordered us not to perform jumps."

"Ordered _them_." Trudi said. " _We_ know what we're doing."

Mariella considered this. It was tempting.

"Watch out. Here comes big sister." said Trudi.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes fell in with the two.

"You were thinking of galloping, weren't you?" she said, pleasantly, in _Vondalaans._ "And jumping."

"Who, us?" Trudi said, innocently. Johanna shook her head.

"I know you both. I know you're two of the best riders here. And I know you're both bloody frustrated you have to go at everybody else's pace. But we were all told not to gallop or jump on unfamiliar ground. Which includes _me_. So to keep you out of trouble, parts of the horse, in Morporkian. Begin!"

Johanna drilled them both until she was satisfied. Then she said "Drop back, miss van Stijler. Nothing personal. I wish to speak to my sister about private things. Family. And you're the only other person here who speaks _Vondalaans_. So do us the courtesy and drop out of earshot? _Dankie_."

Johanna and Mariella discussed the four renegades who were on the run and out to kill. Mariella listened as her sister brought her up to date with the latest information.

"So it is possible the Watch may soon detain them?" Mariella asked.

"I very much hope so. It's that or a fight."

Mariella considered this. Then she spoke to Johanna about her trip into town with Rivka and the conviction that somebody had been following them. Who was not Guild. Johanna listened intently.

"People are following us _both._ " she said. "Informal guards. I suspect this is not entirely for our benefit and they're hoping to draw our potential attackers into the open. We're _bait_. On a shark-fishing trip."

"I expected nothing less, Johanna." Mariella said. She'd been in the Guild now for nearly three years, and was getting an idea as to how it collectively thought.

"Did you get a clear look at whoever was there?"

Mariella shook her head.

"Just a feeling. An impression. Like the summer we went up-Veldt together. The year I decided I wanted to come here. Do you remember I had the feeling of being watched and I told you? Then you invited me to turn carefully around without moving too suddenly, and I saw the leopard?"

"Ja. That was impressive. Yesterday you sensed a leopard nearby. Or perhaps a hyena. Trust those senses."

Johanna took a deep breath and changed the subject.

"In a year's time you will be starting your fourth year at this school. Guess who will be entering the first year?"

Mariella then learnt about the next Smith-Rhodes who was to become a student Assassin. She winced.

"My sister Agnetha's oldest. _Young_ Johanna. My _niece._ That makes me feel _old_!"

"We're stuck with it, I'm afraid. Just because she has my name, and just because Uncle Charles has been meddling and cannot leave well alone. Lord Downey _really_ wants her. And just because you think of her as a walking eruption of snot _now_ , it does not mean she will be that way when she arrives!"

Mariella sighed. Becoming _Smith-Rhodes-major,_ she decided, really didn't suit. And she hoped her niece Johanna would have ceased being such a snotty little brat when she arrived.

* * *

 **(1)** Green Redbush. A contradiction in terms, I know. But it exists. And it does clean out the plumbing.

 **(2)** Yes. There _**really is**_ a South African wine called _**Spatzendreck**_. Or " _Sparrowshit"_. No doubt Vetinari buys it for Palace functions, so peoples' mental processes are derailed while they wonder if the label really _does_ mean what it seems to mean. He can then deal with people who are both a little bit drunk and as a bonus, distracted: wondering about "sparrowshit wine".

 **(3** ) Seek not to get up your own bum about things. An accepted strategy in Unorthodox Combat Techniques, as described by regular class member Wayne Drooley, involved pushing _the other bloke's_ head up his own bum. He hadn't quite managed this yet, but he listed it as a class goal to strive for. Old-school Assassins didn't like UCT, describing it as "vulgar street fighting", and not the sort of thing this Guild should be encouraging. Johanna had seen a general reluctance to mix it in a fist-fight as a weakness in her students and as a skills deficiency in the Guild. Commander Vimes of the Watch groaned and said "That's _all_ we need, Assassins who can fight like normal people!"

 **(4)** Shameless plug for my early story _**The Graduation Class**_ , in which a young Johanna arrives in Ankh-Morpork full of unhelpful attitudes and social conditioning, and discovers a need to learn new ways of thinking. Among many other things.

 **(5)** In common with many other seeming patriarchies, the Zulu Empire has had a Paramount Empress occasionally just for the novelty of it. The Empire very soon realises why it prefers to have Paramount Kings, and the neighbours get nervous. Look, women can be _nastier_. Creatively so.

 **(6)** Johanna had not considered he might have discreetly made copies, as part of his domestic duties.

 **(7)** The horsey zone, paradoxically, has possibly the cleanest and best-maintained streets in the City.

 **(8)** Advanced and outstanding riders are taught _lots_ of other skills suitable to the equestrian Assassin. However, it is accepted that many students, despite tuition, will struggle to attain the minimum proficiencies involved. The Concordat requirement is therefore interpreted pragmatically in many cases. Wayne Drooley, who managed to ride a donkey on holiday on the beach in Quiremouth, got a pass for this alone.

 **(9)** This eventually involved shovels and wheelbarrows.

 **(10)** _This privilege is chargeable at an additional three dollars per week for stabling and fodder costs (any veterinary fees which may prove necessary will not be covered)._ Refer to Academic Regulations And Fees For The Current Year, Appendix 12(a) _**Approved Pets and Companion Animals Owned By Students**_. Appendix 12 (b) deals with _**Prohibited Pets and Companion Animals**_ _._ This became necessary after the business with Miss Arachne Webber (Tump House) whose companion spider had to be moved to the Animal Management Unit (High Security), when it turned out to be the Sloth Eating Spider of Paraquat, a rare species that in its mature form grows nine feet across from claw-tip to claw-tip and can consume large hunting dogs. I've written about this somewhere.


	13. Blood On The Track

_**Nothing to it, really! 13.**_

 _ **Moving the story on to the conclusion with mayhem, fighting, and (no spoilers). People will get hurt. Including the good guys. No getting around this. Ground rules: condense to**_

 _ **Drink Rooibuis tea.**_

 _ **And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale in at most another two chapters and perhaps an Afterword.**_

 _The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy, Ankh-Morpork._

Staadtspraesident van Baalsteuwel **(1)** and Lord Vetinari strolled together on the grass lawn, engaged in Head of State-level discussion. The only visible security was provided by Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes, who had his men posted regularly around the gardens watching for any sort of intrusion or suspicious activity in the street outside or from neighbouring gardens. The City Watch seemed to have a larger than usual presence on Scoone Avenue, too. But Julian also knew that in this unprecedented situation, Dark Clerks had been allowed access to the Embassy and were also watching from hidden and discreet locations. Liutnant Verkramp had protested volubly but had been over-ruled. Julian thought he had seen a strange glitter of something metallic up on the roof, but that had been the only visible sign of the _hidden_ security that was also watching over the two Heads of Government.

Julian sighed, resignedly. He really needed a holiday. Leave would be nice. A couple of days at a discreet hotel in Quirm where these things are catered for, and a genial hotel manager nods and winks and guards your privacy. And because he is a man of the world, he accepts that the couple booking in as Mr and Mrs Botha are keen not to invite publicity. Not when he is White Howondalandian and she is, I cannot help but notice, black of skin. _But such is not a crime in cosmopolitan Quirm, monsieur._ He smiled at the thought. Himself, Ruth, a hotel suite, and discreet room service for meals…

He reflected that Johanna had invited them over to dinner again next week. They'd arrive and leave separately, and in between, share an overnight room. It was something to look forward to.

He caught a glimpse of something black over in the rose-garden. He shrugged. The two politicians were probably as safe here as anywhere, and the City had settled down again after the bombs. But he frowned, wondering where they'd attack next. And he hoped it would be over soon. This wasn't exactly ideal for Johanna right now. How far gone was she? Seven months? Eight? There was always a plus or minus factor involved in calculating these things. The baby could be early or late by a few weeks. He fervently hoped he'd get to be a godsparent to the next generation of the Smith-Rhodes family. His father, the head of the wider Smith-Rhodes dynasty, wanted to be kept informed. And even knowing his father could be a cold dispassionate uncaring bastard you wouldn't want to cross, he suspected a normal human decency and concern for a member of the Family was in there too.

Julian resumed his patrol routine, not keeping his eye off the two men he was guarding for longer than a few seconds.

* * *

 _Tegg's Nose Quarry ("Little Howondaland"), Wednesday afternoon._

The Assassins' Guild School maintains an extensive outdoor estate, based on and around a disused quarry some miles from the city, which it uses primarily for outdoor recreational activities and open-air education of all kinds. The Guild's running track and field sports arena is here, for pupils of an athletic disposition. The first lessons in outdoor survival are taught here, where first-year pupils learn the rudiments of putting up tents and basic camp disciplines. The quarry offers a natural training ground for mountaineering proper, as opposed to the urban discipline of edificeering. Surrounding countryside owned by the Guild is used for field-testing traps and devices of all sorts and practically schooling pupils in recognising and avoiding common pitfalls. Because Doctor Smith-Rhodes (assisted by Major ffetch-Felix) is active here in practically testing students in their understanding of Applied Exothermic Alchemy, some of those devices have a more _explosive_ quality to them. This explains the nickname of "Little Howondaland" for the training ranges.

Mr Bradlifrudd, the Head of Physical Education, also has an interest here. As well as using the running track and field sports arena, he takes pride in the cross-country running routes he has devised for his pupils. Sometimes they overlap the zone used by Doctor Smith-Rhodes for testing her devices, and the zone used by Mr Nivor and Miss Band in teaching about traps and pitfalls. In any other school this might be considered negligent of the PE Master and a step too far, even for cross-country running. Not in the Assassins' School.

This Wednesday afternoon, a busy programme of sports education was well under way. Wednesday was Sports Afternoon in the Guild School timetable and every student in the Lower and Middle School had been vectored to a physical pursuit of one sort or another. Guild first and second teams were either competing in matches against other City schools and institutions, or else at squad practice for games to be played on Saturday afternoon. The School's population of students and a majority of the teaching staff were therefore spread far and wide over a variety of locations, from the equestrian centre at Garstairs, to the martial arts donjon at Mollymog, through various football and hockey fields around the City, edificeering in various locations, or else here at Tegg's Nose.

The third year girls had been omnibussed out to the Track and Field Centre and had passed through the usual grim ordeal of the School changing rooms. Although relatively new, Mariella Smith-Rhodes wondered about the paradox involved in deliberately constructing new buildings so that they looked shabby, worn and run-down, with showers that almost worked, with the ingrained smell of old feet and armpits seemingly worked in from Day One by a skilled, if sociopathic, alchemist who delighted in synthesising bad smells. She suspected this was somehow a deliberate choice on the part of the school management. She wondered why those who administered sporting education for school pupils felt compelled to try to make a pleasurable experience into something skewed and nightmarish. Once out there, she loved the sport itself. It was the other stuff that came with it that was hard to stomach. And in this cold country, you _had_ to keep moving to try to maintain a semblance of bodily warmth. The sporting clothing recommended for girls didn't bother her too much. At least the shorts were baggy and allowed freedom of movement. The knee socks were a chore, especially when they got soaked through and saturated with mud. She'd finished a race in bare legs and feet before now, bundling socks and running shoes under one arm. **(2)** And the baggy, almost sleeveless, vest was at least baggy. Anything more figure-flattering with so many boys about – _ag!_

She adjusted the black and red vest with the spider-and-web house crest, for maximum bagginess, and kept herself moving, going through warm-up exercises. It was that or shiver in the Ankh-Morporkian cold which was an ongoing enemy and a subtle torture to her Howondalandian body.

Other pupils were preparing themselves for the coming ordeals in their own ways, Mariella was still puzzled that so many of them considered Wednesday afternoons to be torment. The worst of it – the deliberately primitive and horrible, horrible, changing rooms – was behind her. She was looking forward to the run, four miles on Mr Bradlifrudd's Course D. She now knew all the running routes by heart. To somebody who'd learnt to navigate the Veldt around her family farm to a radius of thirty miles and knew about locating landmarks in what other people would dismiss as featureless wilderness, this was _nothing_. And as for running four miles quickly…

She looked across to another runner, her dark brown skin accentuated by the white vest with the Tump House crest, of the praying mantis in green clutching a severed male head in its jaws. **(3)** Sissi N'Kima was also warming up.

Mariella noted, without surprise, that the grandstand overlooking the running oval was filling up. From there, the beginning and end of most cross-country runs could be watched, as could a good part of the race in between. Mr Bradlifrudd now insisted the returning runners completed a full circuit of the track as they finished, so as to make it more of a contest. **(4)** She suspected this was down to his wanting to show off his best runners, and make it easier for the Gamblers' Guild representatives to work the crowd. School sports did not normally attract this level of interest, but apparently with runners of _international_ standard competing, that made it a different proposition, even getting into the back pages of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ under the heading _Ones To Watch For The Future?_ She frowned. She wasn't too happy about the undeniable fact a lot of money seemed to be exchanging hands on her running prowess. _Well, mine and Sissi's._ Mariella was slightly discontented that Madame Deux-Epées routinely won hundreds of dollars on the Wednesday race and she, Mariella, wasn't making a penny out of it. _There might be a way around this, but the plan needs to be watertight_ , she reminded herself. Any slip-ups would not just reflect badly on her. Johanna wouldn't be pleased either. _And, ag, she'd soon have a younger relative at the school, her snotty little niece. Ag!_ Covertly watching Sissi, she archived thoughts of her budding rebellion, for later. **(5)**

And then Third Year Girls, the race that had caught everyone's attention, was almost underway as the runners were marshalled to the starting line. _One full circuit of the oval, four hundred yards, to sort out the front-runners from the herd behind, then to leave the track and onto the rough ground and along Course D. Four miles and possibly thirty-five minutes later, maybe sooner, return to the track for the last lap._

Mariella Smith-Rhodes moved, without fuss, to the front of the pack mustered at the starting line, choosing a position where she could easily break out with the leading group. And after an expectant silence, the whistle blew.

* * *

"Of course, the problem Charles is facing is the _succession._ " The President said, amiably. "Oh, he's got three sons, alright, but I think he now realises they're in the wrong order."

Vetinari nodded, listening intently. The President continued.

"The only reason you can't call the Smith-Rhodes clan _nobility_ is that we live in a Republic, and we did away with all that _knighthood-baronetcy-lordship_ business right at the start. No insult, Havelock."

"None taken." Lord Vetinari agreed, equitably. "And I cannot help reflecting that the Smith-Rhodes family is too _capable_ to merit any sort of hereditary peerage. My experience of hereditary nobility is somewhat different."

"You only have a handful of them here." The President replied. "And I see you have taken care to cultivate young Johanna and make her _useful_ to you."

"The alternative is a Johanna Smith-Rhodes who poses problems." Vetinari said. "Which I believe is the reason why she was, ah, _informally exiled_ here in the first place."

"None of my doing, Havelock." the President said. "It was thought, at the time, that a lot of interests could be better served by placing a young lady of her particular talents and inclinations in the care of the Guild of Assassins. **(6)** You know, to provide her a post-graduate education, a _finishing school_ , if you like, and round her out. And you have to say she's blossomed for it."

"She has been useful to me and an asset to this City." Vetinari agreed. "In return I have sought to steer her along new lines of philosophical inquiry and to broaden her mind. A fair and an equitable exchange."

"No doubt, Havelock. No doubt. But Charles Smith-Rhodes. He has been blessed with three sons. Who, traditionally, are the heir, the spare, and the idiot."

Vetinari listened.

"And the difficulty is that the idiot son, the one who stands to inherit, is the eldest. Who cannot be packed off easily to the Church or banking."

The president nodded.

"And the spare has no interest in politics. He is a post-graduate student in theology at Witwatersrand University. Who actively _wants_ to enter the Church. Or a church."

"Which leaves the youngest." Vetinari remarked. "The exceedingly able and capable Julian. A remarkable young man."

The president nodded.

"So the problem is how to bypass the older two and ensure the younger brother inherits and becomes, in his time, Family head. _The_ Smith-Rhodes."

The old president exhaled loudly.

"From my point of view, Havelock, a strong Smith-Rhodes family is _good_ for my country. I'd like to go knowing their line of succession is assured."

Vetinari pondered this.

"At least this city is reshaping and broadening Julian's outlook on life." he said. "Which is somewhat inevitable. Being under the tutelage of Ambassador van der Graaf, for instance. And with his cousin offering him – with innocent intent, no doubt – her own input into his further education. Introductions to her friends and associates."

"Oh, yes." The president said. " _Friends and associates_. Hmm."

Vetinari smiled, gnomically. His intelligence service had kept him informed about Ruth N'Kweze. He saw no reason to interfere in the relationship or to do anything other than to be kept informed. The idea both amused and pleased him. It had _advantages_. Thirty or forty years down the line, the next head of the Family, and the Paramount Crown Princess, would, if they were wise, be formally married to other more socially suitable people. But they'd remember a time. And both would wield influence in their respective nations. It was all for the good.

"I can facilitate your seeing mr van der Graaf in hospital." Vetinari said, smoothly changing the subject. "We can, I think, do this discreetly with nobody knowing. And the sooner he is back here, the better. Perhaps we should focus on what we need to do concerning the _other_ situation."

* * *

Excused from Wednesday afternoon sporting duties, Johanna Smith-Rhodes was finally able to make the time to see her uncle in the Lady Sybil. Having been told he'd been shot in the hip and having received conflicting reports that the damage was both more serious than seemed at first glance and at the same time was only a flesh wound, she was relieved to find Uncle Pieter sitting up in bed, a pile of despatches from the Embassy and copies of the _ **Times**_ at hand, drinking tea and being gallant with the nurses, who seemed to really like the old gentleman from a hot foreign country.

His private room was protected by two City Watchmen at the door – a Golem and a Dwarf – both of whom recognised Johanna and had no objections to her walking in whilst wearing obvious weaponry. They'd obviously been briefed that this Assassin, also a Watch special, was not a risk to the man they were guarding. Her Assassin escort remained outside with the guard.

Just to be sure, she glanced out of the window. Yes. Constable Downspout, a gargoyle, was perched outside.

"Commander Vimes insisted." her uncle said, from the bed. "Veracity, could you go end refill the teapot? Enother cup for my niece? _Dankie._ "

A smiling nurse said she'd be delighted. Johanna tipped the metaphorical hat to her uncle's application of charm and persuasion. She suspected thirty years as a career diplomat taught a lot of useful skills. The nurse gone, they spoke in their native _Vondalaans,_ as they always had when circumstances allowed.

"Usually, I'm the one who gets into trouble, uncle." she said, finding a chair and sitting down carefully. The Bump was bigger than ever now and the child was shifting inside her. She wondered, from the motion, if there was an edificeering wall in there.

Uncle Pieter shrugged.

"Well, _you're_ excused adventures for a month or two. It had to descend on _somebody_. In my case as an arrow in the hip."

"But you're out of danger?"

"Igor said it had nicked a blood vessel or two, and they had to extract it with care so as not to damage the sciatic nerve. There are apparently big problems if the sciatic nerve gets interfered with. Igor said I _did not want to know_ what the problems would be. Barring accidents, I should be out in a few days. Just as well, really. Friejda got a message in, to say the Embassy's in a flap with unexpected guests."

"Aunt Friejda will cope, though. It gives her a chance to show off her hostess skills and it keeps her busy." Johanna said.

"She thrives on it." he agreed. He looked round and frankly assessed the Bump.

"Based on the personal experience of having fathered two girls myself. I'd say you're the same shape Friejda was in when the happy day was less than a month away. What's the official estimate?"

"Officially, uncle, I'm seven months and three weeks. But when do you count it from? It's not as if somebody taps you on the shoulder one morning and says _"As of this instant you're expecting. Your nine months begin here."_ All I know is, I started getting sick in the mornings on the school trip to Quirm, and the official count began then. But it could have been a few weeks before."

The tea arrived. Pieter gravely thanked the slightly blushing nurse. Johanna tasted it. Not just any old tea. They'd even got _Rooibuis_ from somewhere. Veracity the nurse bustled off, looking thoroughly appreciated. Johanna smiled at her uncle.

"Does Aunt Friejda know how well you get on with the nurses?" she asked, pointedly. Uncle Pieter smiled a happy smile.

"Veracity came into a little money. She was looking to see the world and asked about our native land. I was describing to her how the Caarp country looks even in winter. Explaining that if she can put up with seventy-two hours on a long-haul carpet, it is a far nicer place to be in February than Ankh-Morpork. And we have hospitals there that pay better for good nurses. The idea interests her. Especially if she can go with a personal reference from an Ambassador she looked after in his time of need."

"Don't mention that to Doctor Lawn." Johanna warned him. "He finds it irritating when other hospitals poach staff he trains."

He smiled.

"I hear you've been busy? Our troublesome friends planting bombs?"

She took this as her cue and brought him up to date on the situation. There had been no more obvious attacks since the day of the bombs. The Watch had followed two good leads but had remained one step behind the attackers, who had melted into the ground again. She explained her own suspicions that she and her sister were being staked out as bait to draw them out. Her uncle listened, attentively.

"If I were you, I would accept the risk." he said. "Let your Guild do what it is good at, and let them do the fighting. Right now you're in no shape for a battle, and you have two other people to think of. Mariella is as safe as she can be, although I do agree it will be a happier world when these creatures are removed from it. Hopefully soon. Now you have two colleagues who are also expecting children? Tell me about them."

To lighten the mood, she spoke about Davinia and Emmanuelle. Uncle Pieter smiled slightly. Emmanuelle had once performed a small contract for the Embassy, and he held her in esteem. **(7)**

"And neither appears to be a target." he said. "I'm glad of that, anyway."

He would have said more, but there was a commotion in the hall. People arriving. Johanna went to see what was happening, loosening her machete in its sheath. And then her cousin Julian walked in, looking sheepish.

"Sorry about this, Johanna." he said. "Got to check the room."

He addressed the ambassador, and saluted briefly.

"Important visitors, sir. I'm requested to ask if you're well enough to receive people."

"Depends if they're more important than my niece here." Pieter replied, switching to Morporkian.

"Up to you to make that call, sir. If I were to tell you one of them is President van Baalsteuwel and another is Lord Vetinari?"

Johanna gasped. Her uncle nodded. He did not seem surprised. She remembered Friejda had sent a message about "unexpected guests".

"Wish they'd warn me when they're in town for State visits." Pieter grumbled. "But then, I'm only the bleddy Embessador. The last to know. Show them in, Julian."

* * *

With guards from four different agencies piling up at the door to the private hospital room, Johanna and Julian, who'd been excluded from the discussion, made their way through a milling throng of City Watch, Dark Clerks, Assassins and Howondalandian Embassy guards.

"That has got to be the best-guarded hospital room _ever, anywhere_." Julian remarked, as they sought coffee and relative sanity. They found it in a hospital canteen that seemed to serve staff and visitors alike.

She agreed.

"How did he get here so quickly end discreetly?"

"Hitched a lift with Olga Romanoff. Decided he wanted to see for himself and visit the injured." Julian replied. "When he's ready to leave, a Pegasus flies him back. Quick, covert, deniable. Gives him a chance to confer with Vetinari while he's here."

"Not exectly _discreet,_ though. Everybody bringing their own guards."

Julian sighed.

"The _**Times**_ is bound to notice. But not my problem. I was asked to bring two good men on the coach and ensure the hospital room was secure. If it isn't, I'd be _very_ surprised."

He thought for a moment, and beckoned over a waitress. Money changed hands. A little later, a tea-trolley rattled off.

"There's about ten people standing guard on that room." he explained. "Where it only really needs two. They might as well stand down for a teabreak. They're professional enough for some to keep watch while others take five. I hope."

Johanna nodded her approval.

"Golems do not need to drink." she said. "But that cost you? I should pay."

Julian grinned.

"I'm now on an open expenses account." he explained. "The Acting Ambassador set it up for me and said in the circumstances, if there's anything I need, the Embassy will pay. And my father sent a letter with Olga. It included a banker's draft for me to draw on the Smith-Rhodes family account at the Royal Bank. He suggested when I can get leave, to take a _certain interesting young lady_ away for a weekend somewhere."

Johanna raised an eyebrow.

"And for the Gods' sake, to be _discreet_ about it." Julian concluded.

"Neturelly." she said. She reflected that with access to the family fortune, Julian was probably richer than she was. Although Uncle Charles would no doubt ensure he spent it wisely, which precluded gambling and Seamstresses. Not, she reflected, that her cousin was into either expensive distraction. He had Ruth, for one thing. She wondered how it worked out when two hostile Embassies tried the honey trap strategy on each other, simultaneously. It rather took the point out of it. And which side would be embarrassed more if it ever got out in the Press. Johanna fancied a deal had been drawn up between the two Ambassadors and both were tolerating, if not actively encouraging, a very unorthodox channel of communication between members of very influential families at home.

"You're very welcome to stay over on Wednesday, es usuel. If you cen get the local leave." she said. " _Other_ guests will be present, of course."

He nodded acknowledgement.

"Wonder what they're discussing in there?" Julian said. "Ah well, ours not to ask why."

And then the nervous messenger from the Guild found Johanna, with news of an incident at the School.

* * *

The first mile of the race found a leading group of maybe six athletes breaking away from the now disregarded pack. These leading six were the ones to watch and lay discreet bets on. For now, Mariella Smith-Rhodes was content to fall back into the middle of the leading group, as had her rival Sissi N'Kimi. To conserve her strength and stamina for when it would be needed, later.

"Tripwire." said Sally Ginnel, who was leading. She made an exaggerated hop to indicate where it was. The other five followed suit.

"Pit trap." said Sissi, pointing down and to the right. The group of runners noted the suspicious patch of dead leaves and branches and skirted round it. On this stretch of the track, Assassins' School cross-country runners were _expected_ to pay attention. Nothing was lethal and nothing seriously injured you. (Well, nothing _much_.) But having to climb out of a pit half-full of muddy water, if you'd been leading the race, was embarrassing. At least it was only on _this_ stretch, three quarters of a mile or so through the designated training area for Traps and Devices.

Somewhere behind them there was an explosion and a scream. Mariella thought an unwary runner hadn't noticed the first of the tripwires, set to detonate fireworks and thunderflashes that made ear-splitting noises.

She ran on. Later in the course, she knew, would be the mud-wallow, fifty yards of glutinous mud. She suspected Mr Bradlifrudd personally tended it with barrels of water and a hose-pipe. Otherwise it would have started drying out. At least they put no devices in it. Johanna had said it was impossible to properly mud-proof them, so they worked reliably. That had been where she had stripped off sodden and useless socks and running shoes and taken the risk of going barefoot. Words had been spoken later about the immodesty of going bare-legged in an environment where there were male pupils. Mariella gathered one of the reasons for the long socks and baggy shorts was to cover up flesh not normally exposed to the male gaze **. (8)** She had compared this to not being able to run effectively, and taken the soaking uncomfortable socks off anyway **. (9)** Strangely, since she had emerged as a star athlete, nobody objected to this any more.

Again she turned a rebellious idea over in her mind and tried to make it work. _The problem is, it needs Sissi to co-operate. I am not sure if she will._

The runners crested and descended a hill. This took them out of sight of the watchers in the distant grandstand. They would be out of direct sight, now, for a good half-mile. Sissi picked up the pace suddenly, breaking out of the small pack. Mariella followed, knowing the real challenge began here. Very soon they had left the other four in their wake and were running together, almost side-by-side. The path was good and well-beaten, threading through irregular depressions and hillocks on the land at the foot of the hill. The two runners made good time here, keeping each other's pace, neither wanting to be the one to make the final break, just yet. Mariella wondered if this was an informal Assassin skill, weighing up the other person carefully, trying to read their body language, seeking to anticipate their actions and how to gain the advantage when the time came. Like swordfighting.

And then something made Mariella spin and stumble, tumbling her off the running path and down a hillock into the depression at its foot. As she fell, she wondered what had grabbed her lower leg like that, as if she'd tripped on a rope or a loose root. _But there are usually no traps on this stretch?_ she thought, with quiet outrage at the perfidy of teachers. Then she tried to roll and hit the ground in a way that caused no further damage, as she had been taught, aware only of pain in her left leg.

* * *

Preet du Plessis nearly whooped as he reloaded the crossbow. _So easy!_ The back pages of the _**Times**_ had attracted his attention. The younger Smith-Rhodes girl, the one he'd stalked in the market, was also a keen athlete and a runner who had made the papers. The newspaper had also helpfully said where she ran. He'd come out and recce'd the place and discovered there was a stretch of the running track that was not overlooked, where the runners were on their own, where a runner heading the pack would be vulnerable to attack.

He had picked his spot and waited. And sure enough, the red-haired girl and the kaffir girl had split from the pack and gone off on their own. He had thought of killing the kaffir too, on general principles, but had disciplined himself to wait for the moment. And there she had been. Red hair, pale skin, black running gear with some sort of emblem. He'd shot, seen her stumble, spin and fall. A definite hit. Now to quickly run forward and confirm the kill before the rest of the kids got there…

Reloading quickly, he got to his feet and moved forward in a wary crouch towards where he'd seen the body fall.

And then the rock hit him, accompanied by an unearthly ululating screech that made his blood run cold. He'd heard a noise like that out on the Veldt in his Army service. He saw the kaffir girl running towards him, stooping to pick up more rocks. He thought quickly. The impact on his right forearm had not been that bad, but he'd have a bruise. He pointed the crossbow quickly and cursed as his injured arm made the shot go wide, narrowly missing the screaming Zulu.

Deciding not to get embroiled here – he'd made the kill, after all – du Plessis leapt into the saddle and spurred his horse on. He felt another rock impact his back _– ag! That hurt!_ and decided against trying to run down the bloody insolent bleck. Zulus could be tricky. He'd heard of them leaping onto horsemen from the ground and taking the fight straight to the rider. He didn't want that.

He spurred and galloped away. He was aware of the Zulu following – he knew they could keep up with a horse, at least for a while – and was relieved when he saw her give up the chase as hopeless.

But Miss bloody Johanna Smith-Rhodes was now going to see a dead sister. The noose was closing in on the one he _really_ wanted. Let her realise that and be frightened.

* * *

Mariella took stock. Her leg was numb from mid-calf downwards. She winced as she recognised a crossbow bolt, sticking right though her leg from one side to the other. Blood was beginning to drip, although the cold meant it was not flowing as fast as it could. And the weapons issued for her personal protection were in her locker, back in the changing rooms. She'd elected not to carry throwing knives on the run as they'd slow her down as dead weight. Gritting her teeth, knowing pain would come later, she carefully removed the running shoe and the sock on the other side. Ponder had said something about a wizard called Rincewind, hadn't he. Whose weapon of last resort had been….

She carefully filled the foot of the sock with rocks and loose gravel. If anyone came looking for her, she'd have time for one good swing… look helpless and injured. Until I see a face to aim at.

It was Sissi N'kima who came to her. The rest of the race was also catching up, and was halting in some confusion.

"I chased him." The Zulu girl said, as she tended to Mariella's wound. "Fast horse. Pointless. You people run on. Fetch help."

Sissi sighed, and removed her white vest. She deftly tore it into bandages and strapped up Mariella's injured leg.

"They say to leave the arrow in place and not to try and remove it." she said, wrapping makeshift bandages around the wound. "Matron Igorina will know."

Mariella found herself going alternately hot and cold and her heart raced. Sissi smiled down at her.

"Wound-shock." she said. "Think calming thoughts."

"Thenk you." Mariella said. The Zulu girl shrugged.

"They say to look after your enemies. You never know when you will need them. And you are my enemy on the track. I want you _well,_ to race you again."

Soon, various staff members were on the scene. Sissi explained what she had seen, noting that people were looking astonished and consternated. Bill Bradlifrudd blinked.

Then he held out his tracksuit top to her.

"Errr… you might be feeling the _cold_ , young lady?" he asked.

Sissi looked down on herself and realised. She'd taken off her vest to rip into bandages. This would earn her marks for improvisation. The fact she hadn't been wearing anything underneath it was a courtesy detail.

"It just isn't _done_ eround here, Sissi. I mean, they did not like it when I bared my _legs!_ " Mariella said, from the stretcher. "But thenk you, enyway."

* * *

Johanna scowled.

"I hev hed just ebout ENOUGH of these people!" she shouted. "Now they etteck my sister. My SISTER! Whet em I going to tell our mother? Es far es I em concerned, it ends here!"

Her voice dropped to a low whisper. Some still-traumatised students at the School had seen this. It was Doctor Smith-Rhodes, _very_ angry. So angry she wasn't shouting. "They've ettecked the Smith-Rhodes family. They ere going to _regret_ thet. Very much so!"

Julian Smith-Rhodes nodded grim assent. It was, indeed, time to stop this. And he wanted to be in at the kill. Family pride demanded it.

* * *

 **(1)** I know. Somewhere else I've given him a different name. This one seems to fit better, with its slightly Satanic connotations (in one of the " _ **van Veeteren**_ " series of police procedurals set in Holland, this is the name of a priest. It is remarked upon that a name translating into English as " _son of Baal's devil_ " is incredibly ironic for a minister of God.) It seems just right for a septuagenarian and very tricksy politician with fifty years of political survival behind him. I just can't find the previous placeholder name – when I do I'll correct it.

 **(2)** This was the trademark of South African middle-distance runner Zola Budd, an athlete at the heart of several controversies in the middle 1980's. Despite the international boycott on apartheid South Africa which prevented the country competing at the Olympics, Zola Budd used her entitlement to British nationality to try out for the British squad. There was no denying that she was entitled to do this, but it inspired a controversy about banned South African athletes using dual nationality to get to compete at the Olympics via the back door. Her case was taken up by the _**Daily Mail**_ , a right-wing newspaper renowned for its sense of racial sensitivity (ie, it didn't have one). And then when Zola actually got to the Olympics with the British squad… look her up.

 **(3)** People looked at this, reflected that Miss Alice Band was the Housemistress and had personally chosen the emblem, and expressed a total lack of surprise. Black Widow House – naturally – had the spider, a sleek black creature with the red hour-glass on its back. Other girls wore the raven, in black over a yellow vest, or the scorpion, in green on red. Observers noted an emerging pattern here. From a distance, the ground colours of black, white, yellow or red made it easy to observe which girls belonged to which House.

 **(4)** Traditionally the finish of the Olympic marathon; one full circuit of the track in the main stadium.

 **(5)** Anyone who has read Alan Sillitoe's _**The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner**_ might suspect a literary allusion. You may be at least partially correct here.

 **(6)** Shamless plug: to my story _**The Graduation Class**_ , in which a naïve girl from Rimwards Howondaland ends up in the big city.

 **(7)** Shameless plug time: see my story _**The Black Sheep**_.

 **(8** ) Pretty much mandatory for female athletes in the early days of ladies' sport.

 **(9)** Madame Emmanuelle had tutted and said "I am instructed to punish you for immodesty, _ma petite_." She had then reached over, given Mariella the very lightest slap on the wrist, and said "There. Consider yourself punished."


	14. The penultimate lap

_**Nothing to it, really! 14.**_

 _ **Moving the story on to the conclusion with mayhem, fighting, and (no spoilers). People will get hurt. Including the good guys. No getting around this. Ground rules: condense to**_

 _ **Drink Rooibuis tea.**_

 _ **And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale. To get to the end where the bad guys get theirs (did you think they wouldn't?) and nicer things happen.**_

 _ **Oh - Tegg's Nose really exists. It's a disused quarry near Macclesfield, Cheshire, England, that's now a country park used for recreational purposes including rock-climbing and - yes - cross-country running.**_

 _An unspecified location, somewhere in Ankh-Morpork:_

The latest safe house was worse than its predecessors. Water dripped and condensed on the walls. Three men, none of them angels, all of them criminals with long and depressingly black records, looked anxiously in the general area of the fourth. Between them they'd committed just about every serious crime in the statute book and even invented at least one new one. On two continents. But the fourth, the ringleader, a man of dark and compelling charisma backed with homicidal strength and primal anger, was the worst of the four by a long way. And none of the other three dared run. Or even _could_ run. They were in too deep. Even if they could have evaded du Plessis, all of them were dead men walking and wanted in at least five jurisdictions. Their names and likenesses had been widely circulated. Even Trolls and Dwarfs wanted their heads. At the last count, at least six separate agencies were out trying to track them down. If they were lucky, the end would be some sort of trial and some sort of noose. Or if the Quirmians got them, the guillotine.

Benckel, the nearest thing the group had to an intellectual, the man with the alchemical know-how to make bombs, reflected that they said the guillotine was instantaneous. He hoped it was. Even though he remembered when they'd first been incarcerated in Howondaland, in the slave-farm whey they'd thought they were safe, one of those scary women had remarked loudly, just where they could hear it, the bitch, about life persisting in a severed head for several minutes after decapitation, with the stump of your spinal column registering only excruciating pain, seemingly radiating from your whole body. Evil fucking bitch. He'd found out her name was Jocasta something. He'd looked her up in an Assassins' Guild directory of licenced practitioners. He'd wanted to go for her, and that Quirmian woman. The Quirmian was pregnant, wasn't she? Easy meat. Barely able to swing a sword right now. Not like the Band woman, who was _dangerous_ and had a _reputation_. People in the Troll's Head weren't the sort who scared easily, but they _all_ remembered the night the Band woman had called in and chopped people up, easy as blinking **. (1)** No, go for the pregnant Quirmian. But duPlessis had vetoed that for now, saying "Later".

Now Benckel saw more clearly why. He'd allowed them to go for that kaffir girl, the policewoman, at her family business. Slipping a bomb on the delivery cart so some other poor sap would convey it to her door had been a _pleasure_. _Bloody blecks, ecting like real people. They need reminding where their place is._

The bomb sent to the Patrician, the one who had the power, had been designed not only to deliver a " _voetsaak!_ " message to the man agitating for their deaths. It had been to spread confusion and tie up the Watch, diverting them from other duties. And killing Vetinari would have taken out the one man capable of uniting all the countries that were arguing over when and how to kill them. It meant a stay of execution for the other bros in that hellhole prison, the ones who hadn't escaped: maybe they'd end up just serving life, or at least having more time to plan their own escape.

And the hit and run raid on the Embassy made sense too. They'd have _got_ van der Graaf, killed him dead, if that huge rhinoceros of a man hadn't used his own body as a shield. Benckel frowned. The idea of deliberately sacrificing yourself for somebody else was foreign to him. _Oh, sure, you do a bro a favour. He remembers, he does you one back, yesno? Good sense. But not at the expense of your own life._ Anyway, they'd delivered a vengeance on the country that had consigned each of them to long prison sentences. _Humiliated_ the bastards. Made it look like they couldn't defend their own Embassy. They'd laughed at the newspaper reports afterwards. But duPlessis had gone into a black rage.

And Benckel now knew, or suspected he knew, what the deeper motivation was, the beetle inside the head of duPlessis that was driving him more and more insane.

He'd screamed in anger that while they'd got the Ambassador, they'd killed the two senior military commanders at the embassy, they'd knocked down seven or eight of those toy soldiers, _all they'd done to the Smith-Rhodes bastard was to shoot his hat off._ The local newspaper had run an iconograph of the bastard showing off the officer's cap with the crossbow bolt sticking through it.

And duPlessis had been galvanised by something else he'd read in the paper, in the back sporting pages, and he'd gone off on a recce of his own. The other three had considered running for it while he was gone, but, dispirited and worn down by the months spent escaping and evading from a Justice they all knew would inevitably find them, and knowing that even if Justice didn't find them, Preet duPlessis almost certainly _would_ , they'd just sat there. Tried to sleep. Didn't even ask what was so important.

And duPlessis went again that afternoon with a small powerful crossbow. He stole a horse. He returned, rubbing a badly bruised arm and laughing with delight. Benckel, alarmed, recognised _insane_ laughter. He'd heard a lot of it in various prisons.

 _If I survive this,_ he thought _, if this crazy bro dies and I live, I'll try to get to Fourecks. Or the Foggy Islands. See what a man can do there._

DuPlessis was crowing about having got one. One of the Smith-Rhodes bitches. One of that bloody hoity snooty superior bastard family. One _less_. And the other bitch is next. The _older_ one.

Benckel, very cautiously, took the evening copy of the _**Times**_ from him. The headline proclaimed MURDERER STRIKES ON THE SPORTS FIELD! in large letters. Smaller capitals underneath shouted MAD RANDOM SHOOTER ATTACKS SCHOOLGIRLS. Even smaller capitals added CONFUSION AT ASSASSINS' SCHOOL SPORTS MEETING: ONE PUPIL BELIEVED KILLED. EVENT BREAKS UP IN CONFUSION. GAMBLERS' GUILD ADJUDICATED THAT ALL BETS WERE NULL AND VOID.

The article itself soberly related how school pupil Mariella Smith-Rhodes (13), a rising star in track athletics and a future international athletic prospect, had been brutally assaulted by an unknown assailant with a crossbow, who had got clean away. A fellow pupil, identity with-held by request of the Watch and the School, had valiantly attacked the lone crossbowman with thrown rocks and driven him off. She was able to give a full description to the Watch later. The Guild of Assassins has not disclosed the current condition of Miss Smith-Rhodes, but eyewitnesses report seeing an inert body carried away on a stretcher and loaded into a fast carriage, later seen arriving at the Guild. Her older sister, Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes (32?), a prominent Assassin, was later seen rushing into the Guild, looking drawn and tight-faced. She declined to give an interview. The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy has been informed, and will no doubt be tasked with breaking the bad news to the family at home…

"I got her!" duPlessis announced to nobody in particular. "One of that bloody damned family! And the other missie is _next_!"

Benckel realised. The focus of the man's obsessive, psychotic, hatred was the Smith-Rhodes family. He now had a clear idea of where they were going to strike next. And he was not looking forward to it. It would be like going for a mother _rattel_ defending her surviving cubs against the hunters who she knew had killed one. A _rattel_ with _vengeance_ on her mind. From a _family_ of rattels.

* * *

 _The Assassins' Guild Infirmary, Wednesday evening._

Mariella Smith-Rhodes shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Her injured leg was propped up on a soft block to elevate it, the injury wrapped in neat white bandages. While it was getting her a couple of days off school, she itched to be mobile and up and running again. Doing _something_. Confinement to a bed was not something she took to gladly. But she'd been told to stay here, in this small private room in the Infirmary, excused lessons for now. She recalled the real shock of the wound had hit her while she was on the stretcher. Cold, frozen, aware how near she had come to death, she had pulled the blanket up over her face, not wanting to be seen, and tried to hide, just lying there, still and quiet. She had heard girls crying, from a long distance away. Then the carriage, the jolting making her leg scream with pain, bringing her back to earth again.

Igorina had deftly removed the crossbow bolt and had asked her to brace herself as she probed inside the wound, retrieving a scrap of her running sock that had been forced in there by the bolt. _That_ had hurt. But Mariella knew about wounds and decided pain now was preferable to not having a leg at all later. Then it was all over, something had been applied to numb the worst of the pain, and Igorina was apologising that there would still be a matching pair of scars, one on each side of her leg, albeit faint ones. A warm soothing drink was offered. Mariella tasted hot soothing sweet chocolate, with an added ingredient she couldn't identify.

Then sleep.

And then visitors. Johanna and Cousin Julian were the first. Then Lord Downey himself accompanied by her Housemistress, Mademoiselle de Badin-Boucher. Mlle. Antoinette had said something colourful in Quirmian about the situation, but had reassured herself the wound was not critical. In a faraway floating state of mind, Mariella listened as a conference happened at the bedside. Johanna sounded furious. Downey sounded nervous under a surface layer of smooth conciliation. _Well, he's dealing with my sister in a stroep. That gets anyone anxious._

She gathered some sort of necessary deception was being proposed, and tried to make herself focus. Johanna seemed to give grudging consent to something. Cousin Julian made a comment. Mariella sensed her cousin was being diplomatically amenable, building a bridge, smoothing over, asking how he should phrase his report to the Embassy about attempted murder of a citizen in the care of an Ankh-Morpork school.

Downey eventually turned to her.

"I must sincerely apologise, Miss Smith-Rhodes." he said. "We simply did not think our students were at risk of attack from unknown assailants whilst going about their legitimate sporting pursuits. Security at the sports fields was lax."

"Bloody non-existent." Johanna said, in a low voice. Downey winced.

"Although it's no consolation to you, we will, of course, be reviewing security arrangements at Tegg's Nose and instituting new measures to ensure there can be no repetition. We take a duty of care to our students most seriously."

Mariella saw Downey turning to her, his face gravely attentive and full of concern. Inside she thought _We take a dim view of outsiders trying to kill our pupils. That's_ **our** _job!_

"We failed you in that duty of care and I most sincerely apologise. A sum of compensation will of course be paid. I will agree this with your sister, who is your legal guardian and next-of-kin during your stay in this city."

He breathed out. "I'm told there will be no lasting complications of your wound, excluding a certain amount of scarring? Good."

"She will be able to walk again in three days." Matron Igorina said from behind Downey, making him jump. Mariella suspected she had done it on purpose to remind him Igors could sneak up unobserved even on Assassins.

The Matron ticked off points on her fingers.

"Trauma damage owing to a sharp slightly barbed metal device inserted with great force. Torn gastrocnemius muscle at the fascia with the soleus. Achilles tendon partially ruptured by the passage of the aforesaid barbed device moving at great impact speed."

Downey looked politely blank. Igorina sighed. She resorted to layman's terms.

"She took an arrow through the calf, halfway up the leg, at the point where two muscle groups conjoin to form the Achilles tendon, which is the main lever for moving the foot."

Igorina held up an arrow in a gloved hand.

"The Watch have done what they can with this." she said, and laid it down on the bedside table. "I suggest Miss Smith-Rhodes keep the bolt that might have killed her as a souvenir, and as a reminder that joining the Assassins can be _dangerous_."

Igorina frowned at Johanna.

"All damage repaired. Wound cleaned and disinfected. Patient expected to make a full recovery. Now am I wasting my breath in saying no walking for three days? No running of any sort for at least seven? And no _competitive_ running for at least fourteen?"

The frown became more disapproving. "Because _this_ family has a history of ignoring medical advice. I remember a colleague treating a Smith-Rhodes with a broken forearm and telling her not to put any weight or stress on it. And what does she do, the idiot woman goes out and starts shooting a crossbow, and _of course_ the recoil re-breaks her arm!" **(2)**

She glared at Johanna. Who had the good grace to remember and look away.

"I'll tell you later." she said to Julian. "You need to know, es it involved enother etteck on the Embassy. Different enemy, thet time."

"I'm told you managed to assemble a weapon of last resort, despite your wound." Downey said to Mariella. "That displayed impressive resolve and ingenuity."

"I remember Ponder – Professor Stibbons – talking ebout a wizard called Rincewind." Mariella said. "When everything else failed end megic was no use, Rincewind took off one of his socks end filled it with helf a brick, so thet he et least hed a cosh to swing. I hed no formal weapons. But around me there were rocks. End I hed socks."

Downey nodded.

"Improvised weapons as a last-ditch resort." he said, approvingly. "And as Miss N'Kime reported, the resolution to use them. Miss de Badin-Boucher, please enter this on her permanent record as a skill and a commendation? Thank you."

And then the Deception was explained to her.

"People saw a still covered body being carried away on a stretcher." Downey said. "The _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ made the assumption there had been a fatality and attached your name to it. We have not lied outright or confirmed that you are dead. The newspaper has only been told that we cannot release any information until your family in Howondaland have been informed, as they should know first. Decency dictates, and all that. Regrettably, breaking the news to your parents will require sending a messenger on the flying carpet service. This will take at least three days."

Mariella tried to sit up.

"You're going to tell my parents I'm _dead_?" she exclaimed. Downey raised a hand and shook his head. Johanna scowled.

"No. Here, we are doing nothing to dispel a rumour, fostered by inaccurate Press reporting, that a pupil was killed in a murderous attack. That is their error. A messenger _will_ be despatched to Howondaland with instructions to speak to your parents, express regret at your injury, but to reassure them you are in no danger. You will be given opportunity to write a letter to reassure them you are alive and well, regardless of what they might see when copies of our newspapers reach Howondaland. I want them to hear it from us first rather than see it in print. So I'm sending our messenger with the Pegasus service. She will arrive well before the Klatchians deliver copies of our newspapers for dissemination or local circulation."

Mariella turned this over in her head. It sounded as if some sort of game was being played.

"Pupils here will be advised that you are critically ill. Although if you wish to name any special friends who may wish to visit you, we can facilitate this provided they swear to silence."

"Rivka bin-Divorah." Mariella said, without hesitation. "End Rupert Mericet. I know he will worry."

" _Rupert Mericet?"_ Johanna asked. Rupert was a sixth-form boy. _Much_ older than Mariella.

"He is a friend, Johanna." Mariella said. "We work together on the School newspaper. He is kind end friendly end encourages me. He treats me seriously, not es if I were a silly little girl. It is like having an older brother. There is nothing more."

" _Hmmmph_." Johanna said. She sounded unconvinced.

"The Mericet boy." Downey said, doubtfully. "Well, he can be advised that it is most important he keeps _this_ confidence. Perhaps we can agree a form of words for the newspaper he edits."

After a pause, Mariella asked

"Sir? Why is it so important the world thinks me dead? Will you ellow me to return from the grave?"

"After perhaps a week. We want the men who attacked you – who attacked your cousin, who propose to attack your sister, the clever but deadly dangerous criminals who pose a threat - to believe they have scored a victory. We want them _over-confident_. We hope this will draw them out into making a mistake which allows us to catch them. If nothing emerges after seven days, you return, healed by Igorina, to the circles of the world. We propose that after a day or two here, you continue a leave of absence from the School to recuperate in your sister's home, away from prying eyes but under a strong guard. Your named closest friends will of course have access, provided they keep the secret. Is this acceptable to you?"

* * *

"Regrettable." Lord Vetinari said, calmly. President van Baalsteuwel indicated his agreement. They had quietly visited the other survivors of the attack on the Embassy. Most of them had reacted with alarm and consternation on identifying the visitors, but the President's good-humoured bonhomie had been like a sort of magic. Vetinari had reflected that Rimwards Howondaland being a democracy – a _sort_ of democracy – where the President needed to perform the irksome task of being _re-elected_ every five years, must select for men who were good at things like this. Who could project an attitude of care and concern and fellow-feeling with the ordinary man – emphasis on _white_ and on _man_ – in the street.

Vetinari had never really got the hang of that. He hadn't needed to. He stood back politely as van Baalsteuwel exchanged jokes and handshakes with his people – eight or nine votes assured there. Again, Vetinari mused on the selective nature of democracy in Rimwards Howondaland, where the emphasis was on one white man, one vote. **(3)** And then, only if the white man owned property worth more than R14,000. He understood intelligently frustrated white women were agitating for the vote which they currently did not have. But reflected it must make democracy more amenable if you only had to worry about the active approval of one in fifteen of your population.

"BOSS can tell me nothing." The President said. "All Verkramp has are summations of their military and prison careers and a list of crimes they have been indicted in. Apart from one chance meeting in a place favoured by white Howondalandians, and the information gleaned by your City Watch, we have nothing to go on. Although I had the great pleasure of speaking to the young lady who encountered them."

Vetinari studied the face of his fellow Head of State. It was said a younger van Baalsteuwel had been popular with the ladies. Age may have slowed him, but the charm remained. He recalled dining at the Embassy the previous night. The President had been seated, he suspected deliberately so, between the pleasant Lady Friejda and that somewhat attractive Social Secretary, the one whose beauty was in inverse proportion to her intellect, the one who had inadvertently assisted the criminals. Both had been flattered and enchanted by him.

He frowned slightly.

"If, as you say, they have gone to ground. The place to find rats and cockroaches is generally in holes and crevices. Or _underground_. Insanitary animals usually flee to deep dank places. I have instructed my intelligence associates to search the Undercity. However, the Undercity is extensive. It is not even fully mapped out. This will necessarily take time."

"Appreciated, Havelock. Now if I may ask you one last favour? I would like to visit the injured girl. Charles Smith-Rhodes would not forgive me if I did not. Can you facilitate a visit to the Guild of Assassins?"

"I need to confer with Donald Downey." Vetinari agreed. "A visit will serve both purposes."

* * *

Alice Band tried one of her classroom glares. It didn't work on the angry girl who stood across the desk from her.

"Miss Band, I repeat. Nobody dies from an arrow through the leg. Well. Not unless the arrow was _poisoned._ But I saw it. I dressed her wound. She was conscious and capable of speech. She nearly hit me with that cosh she made! _I want to see her_!"

Alice Band reflected that this was a very long speech from the normally taciturn Miss N'Kima. It reflected passion and depth of feeling. She respected passion in her girls. Sensibly used, it could be a useful tool in an Assassin's armoury provided you didn't let it override your head.

"I honestly don't know what condition she's in." Alice said, honestly. "I never got to see Johanna – _Doctor Smith-Rhodes_. But I'm reliably told she didn't look happy. The way you'd expect to look if somebody had killed your sister. And anyway, it's all under strict lockdown. I will make enquiries for you. It's reasonable you should ask, as you were there. I'll make that point to the Master. Especially since the Watch questioned you for over an hour."

Sissi N'Kime had indeed been interviewed. With Miss N'Kweze and Canon Clement in attendance, she had gone over every aspect of the incident with a sympathetic Captain Angua. Her description of the attacker had matched the fugitive duPlessis in every respect. She'd seen him clearly and witnessed him riding back, Rimwards by Widdershins, towards the City. Angua had matched that to a description of a stolen horse recovered near Leastways. Incredibly, a honest citizen had led the horse to a Watch-house and handed it over as lost property **.(4)** It was another lead. Angua suspected the fugitives were starting to get tired and were beginning to make mistakes as the slow, plodding, but above all, remorseless, police chase caught up with them. The Watch had again descended in force on the Leastways area where the horse had been found, but nothing had emerged yet.

* * *

Rats got _everywhere_ , the criminal called Ouistrehaam thought, sourly, as the verdammte creature dodged his boot. It disappeared into a hole in the bare wall. But there'd be another one along sooner or later. There always was, in this damp place. At least they wouldn't be there for much longer. The baas-fella wanted one last big raid on a big target. Then he'd promised he'd think about them dispersing and going their separate ways. There was too much heat now. Everybody seemed to be looking out for them. Thieves, Assassins, policemen, the Howondalandians… distantly, Ouistrehaam heard the chittering of another rat in the wall. He sank deeper into his gloom.

* * *

At Vetinari's suggestion, Heidi van Kruger (the nominated messenger to Howondaland) took several iconographs of Mariella sitting up in bed, smiling and pointing down to a copy of the Times that gloomily trumpeted about the murder of an Assassins' School student. A last photo had Mariella holding up a placard that said

 _Geliefde Mutti en Vatti. Ek is nog steeds lewendig! Moenie bekommerd wees oor my. Met liefde, Mariella Elisabet._ **(5)**

"I aten't dead yet". Vetinari said, mysteriously. He didn't elaborate the joke. Heidi added a picture of what she thought was an incongruous family group, of Johanna and Julian on either side of Mariella. The old Howondandian man who had accompanied Vetinari and declined to be introduced as anything other than a "family friend" said

"Very prudent, Havelock. Agnetha will be keeping count of the weeks, as a grandmother does, and will know it is a recent iconograph of her older daughter." He added a question in Vondalaans – "how many weeks now?", and Johanna answered.

"Keep me informed." Van Baalsteuwel requested. "Julian, my flight back home will leave very early tomorrow. If you have any letters or despatches, please have them ready by then."

He nodded down at Mariella, who had been shocked to recognise the old man and had wondered how on Disc he'd got here.

"A pleasure, my dear. A shame it had to be in these circumstances, but Smith-Rhodes women are notoriously hard to kill. People do keep _trying_ , though."

* * *

About an hour later, an unscheduled Pegasus flight took off for Howondaland. Irena Politek and flight Feegle Buggy Swires were getting Heidi van Kruger back Home by the speediest of methods. For the look of the thing, she'd been seen taking off on a scheduled long-haul carpet belonging to Klatchian Carpetways. But by arrangement with the Klatchians, a Pegasus popped out of Feegle-Space just below and to the left of the commercial carpet. Heidi took a deep breath, tried to ignore the fact she was currently several thousand feet up, and dropped down, swinging herself into the pillion position behind Irena. As consternated passengers looked on, the Pegasus banked away into a convenient cloudbank, where Buggy performed the craw-step…

* * *

Johanna returned home. Ponder had been briefed, and tensed himself for dealing with her in a foul mood. He was surprised when she kissed him and said "Thenk you for telling Mariella ebout Rincewind. You know, the _half-brick- inna- sock_ ".

Johanna then told the household staff about what had happened to Young Madam, and that she would be staying here for a few days to recover. The servants responded with mixed grief and relief. Claude the butler looked grave and his expression was unreadable. Johanna studied him. That was not the sort of reaction she would have expected. Blessing was weeping, Dorothea looked angry, and the house-goblins were chattering among themselves in a way she'd last seen when the former slaves in Howondaland had decided to arm themselves and fight. Johanna felt reasonably assured they'd fight for her if it came to that.

She looked at Claude again. In the time she'd employed him, he appeared to have changed from a slightly worried, put-upon, senior "houseboy" as they were known at Home – all male black servants could be a "boy" even if they were middle-aged and greying of hair. She'd put it down to her more relaxed manner of running a household in the Ankh-Morporkian manner, combined with the tuition she was paying for from Willikins and The Guild of Gentlemens' Gentlemen And Senior Domestic Servants. He was blossoming into a very diligent and capable butler indeed, in the Ankh-Morporkian way. Johanna had remarked to him that this meant, once his term of indenture to the Embassy was up, he'd be able to name his own wage at Home from the sort of people who wanted a butler rather than a major-domo. Ankh-Morpork-trained butlers were rare in Rimwards Howondaland. Claude had considered this, and mildly remarked that having seen this City, he might not _want_ to return Home, madam. Johanna had considered this. She wondered how easy it would be to persuade her uncle to wangle him a permanent visa to carry on living outside the Staadt. Blacks were not, generally, allowed to emigrate. _Maybe I can get him a permit to live here so long as he works for me_ , she thought.

But there was something else there. She'd witnessed him helping the Boy to cut firewood for winter. Claude had wielded an axe with what she recognised was proficiency. She'd seen him helping Dorothea to joint a half-carcass of lamb for winter preservation. A woman who knew about bladed weapons, she'd seen more than just competence there, as well as an instinctive knowledge of where to cut. Trainee butchers _hacked_ , often trying to hack through the thickest bones out of inexperience and brute force. An experienced butcher knew _exactly_ where to apply the blade, so as to chop through in one smooth cut. This was something the Assassins taught, albeit for a different purpose, on a different but similar anatomy.

And all the servants except Claude were still uneasy about the weapon displays on the walls. She'd seen him, in quiet reflective moments, almost appraising the crossbows, blades and sharp pointy things, as if refreshing old memories.

 _No, I need that word with him_ , she decided.

* * *

"I don't want to do _thet_ again in a hurry." Heidi said to Irena. She was still shaking slightly from the mid-air leap off the side of a flying carpet.

"They teach you gymnastics at the Guild, don't they?" Irena said, unfeelingly, as Buggy Swires sniggered from his comfortable seat in the mane. "Look upon it as a sort of Emergency Drop."

Heidi relaxed. If you closed your mind to a drop into the Circle Sea from ten thousand feet up, it had really been quite simple. The Pegasus had kept station just underneath the carpet, matching its speed. All Heidi had needed to do was to dangle, swing her legs, and drop the five feet or so to where Irena had caught and steadied her. Well, she could now report to the Guild that this was wholly doable as a manoeuvre… and Mr Harvey-Smith taught advanced riders to leap from saddle to saddle to change horses quickly in mid-gallop, of course… she'd done that training too…

"Of course, we don't envy you _your_ job." Irena said, mildly. She'd met Johanna's father at her wedding. Having to break the news his youngest daughter had been injured by an attacker would not be pleasant for the messenger. Having to explain to him why the Guild considered it expedient for the world to persist in the mistaken impression that Mariella had been murdered…. Irena shuddered slightly.

"Yon Barbarossa's a bigjob among the bigjobs, aye." Buggy agreed, with the serenity of mind that comes of not having to break bad news to a man who had once arm-wrestled Mustrum Ridcully. And won. **(6)**

Heidi sighed. It would take sensitivity and diplomacy.

* * *

And things settled down again.

President van Baalsteuwel flew back to Howondaland via a second Pegasus. He carried a satchel full of reports and documents from the Embassy and others, as well as private letters for people such as Charles Smith-Rhodes. He had come to an agreement with Vetinari, privately agreed face-to-face without having to take other nations' opinions into account around a conference table. This necessarily sped up the process of international debate, and would cut through the morass of further interminable negotiation with six or seven governments.

In its essentials, it said the four renegades currently on the run in Ankh-Morpork, once apprehended, would be immediately tried, publicly, in that city. When found guilty – Vetinari had been scrupulous to amend this to a necessary _**If**_ – they would publicly hang at the Tanty. Rimwards Howondaland was invited to send lawyers to argue the case, under its law, for punishment of the attack on the Embassy and murders of members of the diplomatic staff. The nations of Quirm, Matabeleland, the low Kingdom of the Dwarfs and the Diamond Kingdom of the Trolls were to be invited to send representatives to _observe_ the proceedings. But they would have no further part in it and could like it or leave it. Negotiations were now _over_. The remaining eleven defendants from the earlier case, still in Quirmian custody, would be invited to meet Madame Guillotine, as soon as could be arranged under Quirmian law. Quirm was to be reminded, wholly coincidentally, about loans and loan guarantees held by finance houses in Ankh Morpork. And taxation on imports of wine, fine cheeses, snails, designer couture, and other consumer luxuries, would soon be up for renewal, Vetinari reflected.

"But we still have to detain them, Havelock." the President had remarked.

Vetinari had grinned a completely humour-free grin.

"Investigations proceed, Louis. They proceed."

* * *

And rats of all sorts proliferated in the Undercity. Its population of desperate beggars, down-and-outs, gnolls, goblins, and all the others who sink beneath the bottom, was being checked and investigated. It would not be long now before Vetinari's spies and messengers in the Underworld, very few of them human, got a definite lead.

* * *

Confined and bored, Mariella Smith-Rhodes was allowed discreet visitors the next day. Her friend Rivka bin-Divorah spent a couple of hours with her and left, having vowed a quiet vengeance on whoever did this to her friend. Mariella had no doubt she'd be merciless if whoever it was got within range of a throwing knife. Her next visitor made her sit up straight.

"You are not going to try and hit me with a cosh again?" her visitor said, with polite wariness.

"I epologise." Mariella said. "But I did not know who was going to eppear _first_. Hed it been the man who had shot me…"

Mariella had pulled the makeshift cosh back swiftly as Sissi had leapt out of the way. Then the Zulu girl had explained, hands held up empty, that her motivation was to _help_ , if even a stupid Boor could grasp that. First aid had followed.

"I believe I elso owe you a new running vest." Mariella said, tacitly extending the apology.

Sissi nodded, and sat down by the bed.

"I thank you. But there is no need. Miss Band saw to it that I received a new one. She refused an offer to pay for it. I understood her to be well-disposed towards me. Then I asked about you, and insisted on seeing you."

She held out a basket.

"I understand in this country, fruit is the appropriate gift to one in hospital? They say the food in hospitals is abominable."

Mariella smiled. Food in the infirmary was that which was held to be suitable to invalids, thin soups, minimal bread, a bland diet, a lot less than she was accustomed to. She had not thought that an additional trial in hospital was to be underfed on poor food and to have to withstand the hunger pangs and the cravings for something worth eating **.(7)** It also seemed to be a blind spot among Igors, who seemed to believe that if you were able to criticise the diet and want something better, then you weren't really ill.

"Thenk you." Mariella said, selecting a handful of grapes. She noticed there was the obligatory pineapple in the basket. She wondered if that was a wry statement of her current predicament.

"Why are you here?" she asked. The Zulu girl looked like a quivering bundle of pent-up anger. _And concern_.

"I want you _well_!" Sissi said. "I want you _fit_! I want to run against you! You are still an _enemy_ , Boor-girl. Don't misunderstand me. But an enemy who is worthy of honour! Such people, you _cherish_. You're the only one who is a real test of my running. Can you imagine how _boring_ it will be not to have you on the track?"

"Keep your friends close, end your enemies _closer_." Mariella remarked, quoting something she'd heard. It might have been Lady T'Malia. She half-remembered T'Malia had been quoting Vetinari.

"Exactly!" Sissi said, emphatically. "How soon will you be able to run again? _Properly_ run?"

"Igorina reckons a fortnight." she said. She noted the other girl's genuine concern, imperfectly hidden underneath the obligatory words. Mariella decided to go for broke.

"Sissi," she said, "You know they _charge edmission_ to the grendstend when we run? Thet people like Medame Two-Swords make a lot of money betting on us? And we don't see a penny of it? People are making money out of us? _Listen…_ "

And she outlined her plan.

Some time later, a Boor and a Zulu went against the general trend of their respective nations and shook hands, having agreed on a joint plan.

* * *

Johanna Smith-Rhodes took a lesson in Inimical Alchemy with a senior class, covering for a rare absence on the part of Mr Mericet. Apparently he'd been summoned to an emergency session of the Dark Council.

It was textbook stuff, covering the properties of certain alchemically refined reagents and their potential uses to the working Assassin, and it didn't stretch her too much. At lesson's end, she briefly said

"Mr Mericet, remain. I'd eppreciate a chat. Thenk you."

She meant Rupert Mericet, a sixth-form pupil who had the misfortune to be distantly related to the veteran teacher. Rupert tried, pointedly, not to be _too_ good at alchemy, in self-defence. He was a founder member of the RATS club, _Relatives of Assassin Teachers and Staff,_ a group of pupils bonded in the adversity of being related to teachers or being thought to be related to teachers. A fifth-form girl called Margaret Band was no relation to Alice Band, for instance, but everyone thought she _was_. Johanna knew other members included the Bellamy boys, and her own sister Mariella. The group was informally officially sanctioned, as a method of letting pupils in this position let off steam and help fellow sufferers along.

"Ma'am?" he said, politely. She studied him. Mericet was tall and lean with distinct dark good looks and a self-confident air. His quick wit was a legend among students, and had landed him into trouble for insubordination several times. **(8)** She suspected the carefully chosen _"ma'am"_ was his way of pushing it with her, but let it slip.

Johanna left it for an interminable instant before she spoke.

"What hev you heard ebout my sister Mariella?" she inquired, watching his reaction. He blinked, then steadied himself.

"I understand I should give you my most sincere condolences." he said, but there was no humour or irony in his voice. She held his gaze.

"But. Forgive me if this is not the case. She's still alive, isn't she?"

Johanna nodded.

" _Ja._ And she hes esked if she cen see you."

Mericet's face could not conceal relief.

"I'm very pleased." he said. "She's bright. She's talented. She can write a good story. You wouldn't believe how rare that is! I like her. Err.."

He faltered, watching Johanna's eyes.

"Don't misunderstand me." he said, quickly. "I'm an only child. My parents didn't want to have any more kids. Sometimes, you know, it's _nice_ to think of somebody like a little sister… the sort you'd like to have had…. errr…"

Johanna smiled, and patted his hand. He'd passed the test.

"I don't doubt you, Mr Mericet… _Rupert_. Mariella can tell you where I live. Drop by for dinner some time. Thenk you."

She dismissed him, reassuring him that dinners she and her husband hosted were informal. Then she reflected that in ten years' time, an age gap of four years wouldn't be as significant, and who knew? Then pulled herself up sharply, realising she was planning a possible husband for her sister. _Mariella will find her own man, when she's good and ready. Don't meddle!_ Reasoning that it was pregnancy that was making her think like this, but consoling herself with the thought that Rupert's intentions were honest and laudable ones, not that she'd ever really suspected anything else, deep-down, she packed up her things and got on with her day.

* * *

Julian Smith-Rhodes went over the case-file for the tenth time, reading all the information available on the four hunted thugs. He noted that Preet duPlessis had first come to the attention of military authority aged nineteen, during his national service. There had been a difference of opinion with his commanding officer on active service. His unit had taken Zulu prisoners. DuPlessis had loudly advocated for losing the encumbrance of prisoners and had expressed a preference for killing them out of hand. His officer had intervened, there had been a confrontation, blows had been exchanged and duPlessis and other mutineers had gone under close arrest, later court-martialled.

Julian took a deep breath. Refusal of orders whilst in the front line. Striking an officer. Mutiny. Hanging offences. Although the officer had punched back, and harder, and because the accused had been under twenty, the death sentence had been mercifully commuted to five years in a military prison.

Julian tried to find a record of the court-martial. He was interested in finding out the identity of the officer who could not only still stand after taking a punch from duPlessis, but could counter with an even more damaging counter-punch. He wondered if it would turn out to be Colonel Breytenbach, due to be discharged from hospital soon after Igor attention. Breytenbach would have been a giant of a man even thirty odd years ago. And it added another reason for the Embassy attack.

Julian eventually found the court-martial record, hidden in the back of a very thick folder marked _duPlessis, P._ He translated the Vondalaans in his head as he read.

 _Evidence was given by Captain Andreas Smith-Rhodes, who testified that the assault on his person had followed an argument over disposition of several prisoners-of-war._

He blinked. He read on.

 _Captain Smith-Rhodes explained to the accused, in no uncertain terms, that he had every intention of getting back home as his wife had just had their first child, a daughter he hadn't yet seen…_

Julian checked the dates. He did some mental arithmetic. Then he called, loudly, for the Duty Officer so as to send an urgent clacks to the City Watch and Guild of Assassins. He now knew who they'd be going for next. And he suspected he also had an idea as to _why._

* * *

Heidi had not expected that Mr and Mrs Smith-Rhodes would hear her out in complete silence. She, Irena and Buggy had been invited to stay at the Smith-Rhodes farm and at least eat with everyone. Buggy had been regaling some of the younger children with Feegle song and story, and Irena had only had to rebuke him _once_ for using bad language. Barbarossa, a man who recognised a kindred spirit, if one only six inches tall, had said he'd crack open the _witblits_ later, if you're interested. Then he'd heard the story and appreciatively received the iconographs. Agnetha had wept for one daughter and expressed pride and satisfaction in the advanced pregnancy of the other.

"Johanna chose that life." Barbarossa said, slowly. "End the risks. We eccept thet. It doesn't mean we hev to _like_ it, but we eccept thet."

His wife Agnetha nodded, sombrely. Heidi thought she could see a much older Johanna in her face. One who had never left home and accepted a different life.

"But they ignore her, to go efter my other daughter." He said. His face darkened. "A _coward's_ way. Johanna can defend herself. She hes much practice. But to etteck Mariella. This enrages me."

He stood up, his bulk unfolding. Irena thought it was like a troll rumbling upright. The red beard fading to grey made him look like an old-time ogre.

"The ettecker is called duPlessis, you say? I remember one such. From my Army service. A worm of a man who used bullying end blustering. I corrected him _meny_ times. Listen, Heidi. Listen, policewoman. There was the _last_ time he dared go against my orders. Shortly after Johanna was born…"

Then Heidi and Irena heard the story too.

* * *

 **(1)** Shameless plug. To my story _**Clowning Is A Serious Business.**_

 **(2)** New shameless plug: to my story _**Why and Were.**_

 **(3)** South Africa ignored womens' suffrage until 1930. Until then, only white men who owned property could vote. Universal suffrage to **all** white people regardless of property and social status had to wait another couple of years. Black and coloured people got no vote until the late 1990's.

 **(4)** A completely honest citizen in Ankh-Morpork who sees not "a free horse for the taking", but "a lost horse needing to be reunited with its owner". Really incredible, but every police investigation deserves a lucky break every so often.

 **(5)** "Dear Mummy and Daddy. As you can see, I'm not dead. Please disregard anything else you hear. Love, Mariella."

 **(6** ) It's like this. Part of the stellar roster of Ankh-Morporkian dignitaries who had attended her wedding to Ponder, Mustrum Ridcully had met Andreas Smith-Rhodes, and two extremely large men of approximately similar age, both powerful alpha males, had weighed each other up in a way the happy bride would have recognised as a primate dominance ritual;. Ridcully had amiably introduced himself as the nearest thing to the father of the groom, the lad's somewhat like a son to me, no parents of his own, you follow? Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes had nodded and said "Ja, I follow. Es it heppens, I em father of the bride, end it fells to me _to pey_ for this day. We mey es well hev some fun." The two big men had then rolled up their sleeves and elected to arm-wrestle, loser buys the beers. Bets were made and a table was cleared. An appreciative crowd gathered round to watch Ridcully win the first round. Surprised, Barbarossa had offered "Best out of three?" After a lot of straining and grunting and ominous creaking from the table, Barbarossa won the second round. On the third round, the table collapsed. Then Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, a woman a third the size of her husband, put her foot down, and ordered Andreas not to carry on making a spectacle of himself. Barbarossa meekly said "Yes, dear", then laughed, slapped Ridcully on the back, and demanded beer for myself and my new friend Mustrum, the only man to beat me in an arm-wrestle!

 **(7)** Really true. Really. As I mentioned, I was in hospital for a week. British hospitals are allowed to set their own diets and the quality varies widely. I discovered hospitals across Great Britain budget between £5.00 and £15.00 per day for all meals per patient. Guess which end of this scale Stepping Hill, Stockport, operates on? The food, correspondingly, is poorly prepared crap. It's an extra horror of being ill.

8 (8) I'm describing comedian and satirist Peter Cook here, who co-founded satirical magazine _**Private Eye**_ and went on to forge a career in comedy, initially alongside his partner Dudley Moore. At school, Cook regularly got into trouble for cutting and accurate impersonations of his teachers and for slipping inflammatory stuff into the school magazine.


	15. The battle of 18 Spa Lane, part one

_**Nothing to it, really! 15 part one**_

 _ **Moving the story on to the conclusion with mayhem, fighting, and (no spoilers). People will get hurt. Including the good guys. No getting around this. Ground rules: condense to**_

 _ **Drink Rooibuis tea.**_

 _ **And here we are, trying to wrap up this tale. To get to the end where the bad guys get theirs (did you think they wouldn't?) and nicer things happen. This is going to be a long one. Lots will happen and one new OC is introduced.**_

 _ **Aaargh! After getting the necessary prompt which fired me into seeing how it all fits together (thank you to reader KsandraMallan) I really got stuck into finishing this. Then I did a word count. 14,000 words and climbing. Five thousand is about right for a chapter. Seven thousand long, but not excessively so. Ten thousand the upper limit of acceptable – reader endurance, and all that. So I decided to chop it into sections. This is the final battle, part one. Part two will follow quickly. Enjoy!**_

* * *

 _From the_ _ **Ankh-Morpork Times:**_

 **CITY IN FEAR AS TERRORISTS STILL NOT CAUGHT AFTER LATEST OUTRAGE**

 _ **Assassins raise bounty on their heads**_

 **We understand from insiders at the Guild of Assassins that Lord Downey has significantly raised the tax-free bounty payable to Guild members who successfully detain or otherwise deal with four nasmed suspects, thought responsible for the outrage at the Tegg's Nose sports ground, in w2hich a Guild schoolgirl was foully slain.**

 **His Lordship is understood to have remarked that "this is on one level a cosmetic gesture, as these men will be no easier to detain for fifteen thousand dollars a head than they were at ten. However, it sends out a clear signal that we are enormously displeased at the attack on our students, on our premises, and the level of our displeasure has been magnified by 50%."**

 **Lord Downey has also made it clear that any Guild member taking this contract should be prepared, in the spirit of** _ **noblesse oblige**_ **, to pay generously for valid information leading to the successful detention or if necessary inhumation of the suspected terrorists. Members of the public with information should discreetly leave a message, with contact details, at the Guild gates on Filigree Street. They will be contacted.**

 _ **Other News:**_

 **The Guild of Assassins has still not yet confirmed that one of its students was slain in the Tegg's Nose outrage. Its press release flatly stated that the ;parents of a student affected in the assault needed, for decency's sake, to be informed first. As they dwell in a remote part of Howondaland this would necessarily take up to five days even using the fastest generally available transport. Once assured the parents have been given the sad news, the Guild will be happy to comment further.**

 **Our eye at the transport terminal for the Klatchian Carpetways Service has confirmed that Miss Heidi van Kruger, a graduate Assassin and teacher at the Guild School, was seen to board the scheduled long-haul flight to Caarp Town, Rimwards Howondaland** _ **(calling at Al-Khali, Al-Gebra, Sprained Ankle(1), New Scrote(2), Pratoria and Caarp Town)**_ **. It is therefore entirely probable that Miss van Kruger has the sorry task of breaking the news concerning the murdered pupil, believed to be Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes (130) of Piemberg, Rimwards Howondaland. A source at the air terminal disclosed that Miss van Kruger's ticket is valid for Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland, a journey which indeed takes the hardy traveller slightly less than three days.**

 **City Watch Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh, has asked us to make it clear that whatever the bloody Assassins are prepared to pay in information fees, he will at least** _ **match**_ **, provided the information is sound and there are "no bloody time-wasters".**

 _ **From the letters page:**_

 _ **Only print this one if it's a slow day for letters. WdW.**_

 **Dear Sir,**

 **It's an utter disgrace that these Howondalandians are being allowed to roam around our City setting off bombs, and murdering people willy-nilly, and Gods-know-what. What are the Watch doing, paid for out of our taxes and everything, that's what I'd like to know! Why, there was even one of them in the butcher's shop on Cheap Street where I was buying my liver for tea, and some scraps for the cat. Walks in, br zenly queues up with everybody as if he was a normal citizen, politely asks for two pounds of cooking steak, then says thank you, well it sounded like "thenk you", you know the way these people talk, they're sneaky, you can't even tell they're Howondalandian because they're** **white** **and they look like normal people, until they open their mouths! Then pays up with real money, can you believe the brass nerve, takes his change, and walks out of the shop again! You can imagine a man like that setting off bombs and shooting at little girls (showing their actual** **knees** **to all and sundry on the running track, brazen hussies). Should be stopped, but the Watch have STILL done nothing about the Dwarfs what peep in on me undressing for bed every night, what can you expect!**

 **Yours sincerely,**

 **Marietta Cosmopolite (Mrs),**

 **3 Quirm Street,**

 **Morpork.**

* * *

"So what's it like to be a knee-revealing brazen hussy?" Rupert Mericet asked. He was one of a circle of Guild School pupils sitting in the back lawn at 18 Spa Lane. Mariella had been transferred here in conditions of great security late at night. She was relieved to be at her sister's. She knew she was as safe here as anywhere, and that there was a permanent detachment of graduate Assassins two doors down the street at Doctor Bellamy's, poised to intervene if any attack was made.

She smiled.

"Emused, I think." she said. She had heard about Mrs Cosmopolite. It was hard to take offence. "But in limbo, es I em still officially dead."

"Until next week." Tim Bellamy said, sympathetically. "Being dead gets you off lessons, I bet."

"I wish." Mariella said. Johanna's conditional sympathy for her younger sister had expired at this point. A stack of school books had been left on the table next to her together with lesson plans, assignments, and a note saying there was no reason for her not to keep up with her studies, as she could still read and write. And M. LeBalouard had called by for a social drink. He'd sympathised with the invalid but had _still_ sat down with her for an intensive three-quarters-of-an-hour of the Simple Past Tense in Quirmian, to compensate for her having missed his class that day. Her head was still reeling from the preterite case of the verb _être_ , which her teacher stressed was hardly ever used in speech but was important for comprehending the written language. Or something. Mariella wished Quirmian could organise itself on _sensible_ lines, like a _real_ language such as Vondalaans, Überwaldean, or, stretching a point, Morporkian.

"Why do they think I'm a hundred end thirty years old?" she asked, having read that day's _**Times**_. "Thet's a bit _old_ to be et school?"

Rupert laughed, but not in a supercilious or condescending way.

"Bitched type, they call it. A compositor in a hurry reaches for the wrong letters. And the zero is right next to the right-brackets sign in the boxes. He didn't _mean_ to insert the zero after the thirteen, but that's what you get." he explained **. (3)** "The paper's _always_ peppered with little glitches like that. I can count at least five on this one page alone." Rupert wanted to write professionally after graduating. He had no real desire to inhume anybody, but given the sort of things he wrote about people, he reasoned that Assassin training would be useful for necessary self-defence against literary criticism. The _**Times**_ had offered him a placement, sensing a useful, if potentially inflammatory, talent. Controversy, as Rupert and William de Worde both knew, sells papers **. (4)**

Mariella giggled. She drained the glass of sweetened soda. Almost straight away, Eve the maid stepped forward to refill it. She appreciated this. Her sister's household staff had fussed and fawned over her and nothing was too much trouble. And after the torture of the school san, she was being offered proper food again. Dorothea the cook was making sure of that.

"Don't get too full to run." Rupert advised her, kindly. "Although if the people who fix the odds see you doing nothing and stuffing your face, it means the odds on you winning get higher. You _do_ know how much money people make off you and Sissi when you race?"

He helpfully named a few names, of amounts staked and won. Rupert had lots of contacts. He got to know things.

"Ag! _Thet_ much?" she said, genuinely surprised.

"I'm afraid so." Rupert said, nodding soberly. "Shame you and Sissi are in a strictly amateur sport. If they paid you both for drawing a crowd out, you'd be on _thousands._ "

She filed this away for consideration later.

"Shame we sixth formers are _strictly prohibited_ from betting." he added, drily. "Gambling breaks school rules. Ah well, that's life."

She tried not to let her eyes narrow suspiciously. Rupert knew _lots_ of people. Often the sorts of people the Guild wished its students _didn't_ know. She wondered about asking him to do her a favour, privately, later. Although she also had Cousin Julian in mind. She felt his sense of humour would make him sympathetic to a request for help.

But for now it was a pleasant enough evening, not greatly warm, but not so cold they'd have to return indoors. A good time to sit out with friends, Rupert, Tim, Peggy from up the street, and Rivka. And two big happy dogs that were pleased to be among people they liked.

Mariella wondered, uneasily, about what was going to happen next, when the attacking gang struck again. It was like a cloud in the sky.

* * *

Johanna Smith-Rhodes looked out from the kitchen window, choosing not to intervene and to let her sister and her friends have privacy. She felt slightly piqued that Kaffee and Crème had barely acknowledged her, in their doggy delight that Mariella was here. The two dogs had surged out onto the lawn to be with the student group.

Behind her, Dorothea carried on assembling what would be the evening dinner, pleased that her cooking talents were going to be appreciated that night by a wider group of people.

Something _special_ , for Young Madam, the cook had said. And for the other young ones. Johanna shook her head. She was Madam here, wasn't she? The Baas-Lady? So why did she feel that she had to ask her cook's permission to enter her own kitchen? Uneasily, she sensed this was something an employer of domestic staff had to get to grips with. She wondered if Sybil Ramkin also felt diffident if she ever had to enter the kitchen at Ramkin Manor, some tacit acknowledgement that down-stairs was the servants' world, even in her own house. Mr Vimes had once described his mounting embarrassment at walking into the servants' quarters and asking to be dealt into a game of cards, after all. His own sense of being an intruder in somebody else's space.

She excused herself and moved, restlessly, into the dining room. The door to the main living room was ajar. She heard movement. Moving as soundlessly as she could, she went to the door. And saw Claude the butler dummying moves with the Zulu assegai that normally lived over the fireplace. _Good_ moves. _Experienced_ moves.

"Claude." she said, softly. "I think you and I need a little _chet,_ don't we?"

* * *

Austerity Codscallop was an apothecary. "Was" being the operative word, as he'd been struck off the professional register for various misdemeanours. Cast out of the Guild of Apothecaries and Pharmacists for his more inventive forms of prescribing - he prided himself on his ability to match the correct pharmaceutical to the person distinctly in need of it, in return for cash – he now made a tenuous non-Guild living ministering to the needs of those who frequented pubs like the Troll's Head, medicating their various needs, no questions asked, in return for cash.

So when the mysterious Howondalandian showed up, claiming he'd been referred to Codscallop as one who could provide certain discreet favours, the backstreet apothecary had sized him up, briefly wondering if this was one of the four who the Watch and the Assassins were chasing. But a large quantity of dollars had bought both the drugs the man sought, and Codscallop's silence afterwards.

However, Codscallop, a man who needed cash to ward off rainy days, had also heard both the Watch and the Guild paid for information. For a day or so, he weighed up the consequences of having been seen to grass against the idea of at least a few hundred dollars more. By Saturday morning, he would have made his mind up. He wondered which agency to discreetly approach first. With luck, he could extract payment from both. And the consequences of being discovered to have aided and abetted _this_ particular gang, given what they'd done, up to and including an attempt to kill Vetinari… he shuddered.

* * *

Johanna took a deep breath.

"So Uncle Pieter chose to send you to me…"

Claude nodded.

"Indeed, madam. He felt that given the life you live, you required a _special_ sort of domestic servant. One who would be prepared, and trained, to provide loyal service in _every_ way you could require. When Lady Friejda insisted on sending you a staff of servants, he saw the opportunity to insert me among their number. Mr van der Graaf knew of my service history with the Army and of my rank as Sergeant. He also knew I am from Smith-Rhodesia, and I took a vow of loyalty to the Smith-Rhodes family. As my father and grandfather did before me."

Claude regarded her without fear or servility.

"You would be within your rights to dismiss me, or to send me back to the Embassy, madam. Mr van der Graaf asked me not to disclose this to you, as he feared what he termed _"a streak of bloody-minded independence"_ would assert itself, and you would display resentment at what you would consider to be interference and meddling."

Johanna shook her head, and slowly smiled.

"Please cerry on with your duties, Claude." she said. " _All_ your duties. End thenk you."

* * *

Shallow Valley is a quiet suburban cul-de-sac leading off the street of Shallow End in upmarket Ankh. The houses here are above the average, as any estate agent will point out, and are desirable detached properties in substantial gardens suitable for professional people with families who earn well over the average wage. In a quiet cul-de-sac with no through traffic and with a lot of space separating the dwellers from their neighbours, they are, in fact, havens of peace and security in a busy city where a family might live in undisturbed peace.

On this Saturday morning, the Jennerson family living at Number Five Shallow Valley have discovered there is a downside to living in private seclusion, on a street where the neighbours respect your right to privacy and tend only to call round by appointment.

Specifically, when four large, brutal-looking and frankly bad-smelling men barge in through the door, round up the family and lock you up in the cellar with hands and feet tied, you know nobody will have seen a thing, and therefore it wouldn't even dawn on them to call the Watch. You are very much on your own.

It occurred to a terrified and somewhat battered George Jennerson that these must be the four men from Howondaland. The desperate, wanted, men who'd been responsible for a string of atrocities across the City. The Great Train Robbery. The murder of a Thief. The terror attack at an Embassy. The murder of that Wizard. The bombs. The attack on Vetinari. The slaughter of that poor schoolgirl…

"You people better _behave_!" the leader said in a grating voice. "Then we might let you heve water. Perheps food. End leave you _elive,_ when we go."

One of his associates passed an eye over Mrs Jennerson and their older daughter.

"Hey, bro. Shame we hed to kill thet girl et the School. The runner." he said. "If we'd hed time you could hev hed a little _fun_ with her first. I know you like them younger. She hed thet pale redhead look you like."

He watched as Mr and Mrs Jennerson went pale. Their daughter had auburn-red hair.

" _Ja."_ Said de Koenig. He was the one who'd visited the apothecary with a specific request. "Shame we hev a job to do. But there might be time for a bit of rest end recreation, later."

"Only if I say so!" the leader grated. The others pretended to look disappointed. The leader looked down and said to the Jennersons:

"Up to you people. This cen be easy, or it cen be _hard._ Do es you ere told end your daughter is safe. But if not…"

Then, satisfied his threat had been received and the hostages had been terrified into docility, their captors went upstairs. Upstairs, they laughed at how the threat to the daughter had terrified the parents into submission. Typical soft city people. De Koenig then went to perform his part in preparing for the attack.

Five Shallow Valley backed directly onto Eighteen Spa Lane. Only a dividing hedge, backed by some of Davinia Bellamy's special border plants, separated them from their desired target. DuPlessis had hit on this method of attack as being the best approach route to Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Sheltered, stealthy and from an unexpected angle the damned Assassins did not appear to be covering.

* * *

In the Undercity, a mixed group of Dark Clerks, Assassins and City Watchmen covered all approaches to the sub-cellar Vetinari's spy rats had identified as a possible location. The _special_ rats were recruited from the Clan that had developed sentience as a result of eating magical waste on the Unreal Estate **.(5)** They had co-ordinated _keekee_ as advance agents who had identified several locations housing suspect people. Even so, the _special_ rats were relatively few and could not be everywhere at once. Relying on the sense of smell and general intuition of the _keekee_ , rats who could sense a negatively inclined human but nothing more specific, several raids had gone in, finding only groups of beggars who'd _really_ fallen down on their luck, or else unlicenced thieves, desperate to evade attention. All of whom had still needed to be hauled off and formally processed. This had necessarily taken time, and rotating relief squads had taken over the continual process of raiding, checking, arresting and eliminating. Word also seemed to have gone out among Undercity denizens that Vetinari was _really_ pissed off by something and had authorised a clear-out. People were running and they were finding only empty spaces, with clear signs of recent rough sleeping.

Approaching their eighth big raid in a thirty-six hour search, Watch hopes were fading for getting the men they wanted. But they still had to remember that every raid meant they might be in a desperate fight with armed and desperate men with nothing to live for…

The lead Assassin conferred with the Watch sergeant. All approach routes were covered. There was no escape route. A co-ordinated party in the street above was watching the houses above the sub-cellar, and the drains and manhole covers that offered a more desperate escape to the surface world.

Then they went in, the Dwarf officers attacking the old crumbling wall with mattocks, the Assassins poised to fire crossbows through the hole.

But again they were too late. Sleeping rolls and rough mattresses showed that four men had slept here. Old copies of the _**Times**_ , open to accounts of the Howondalandian gang's raids and outrages. An imperfectly concealed locked box. A copy of an Assassins' Guild professional register of licenced practitioners, with several names ringed.

Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom read names such as Jocasta Wiggs, Heidi van Kruger, Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées, Alice Band and Johanna Smith-Rhodes. All names the owner of the directory had thought worthwhile to circle in red.

"They were _here_." she said. "And we missed them."

Then she thought. _They've left this stuff behind. Including the locked box full of gold and jewellery from the Great Train Robbery. They must be planning to return. Which means…._

"Get a message to Mr Vimes, quickly!" she said. "They're out there somewhere. They're going to hit somebody!"

* * *

Heidi van Kruger relaxed under the familiar and welcome heat of a Howondalandian sun. She was stuck here, at least until Buggy Swires sobered up. He was still in no fit state to crawstep them back to Ankh-Morpork. Johanna's father had produced a bottle of potent spirits and had nodded to Buggy, saying he was in no mood to drink alone. An hour or two later, Irena had done the irritated face-palm thing, realising she was pretty much grounded.

The two had made the best of things, accepting Agnetha Smith-Rhodes' offer of a room for the night. By the look of things, Johanna's mother would have _words_ to say to Johanna's father when he sobered up. Heidi had taken it all in, reflecting that she could now see more clearly what had gone into her old teacher's genetic make-up. Meeting her parents explained a lot about Johanna. It also implied a lot about the sort of woman Mariella would grow up to become. As one of her teachers, Heidi reflected that it was _good_ to know these things about a pupil's family background. And the other girl, the one she'd asked Irena to take on a Pegasus ride, who Heidi had discovered was _also_ called Johanna Smith-Rhodes. But this one, only ten years old. Apparently, a niece. Heidi had a feeling. If she'd thought herself as being psychic, she might have called it a premonition. That she'd soon be seeing _more_ of this girl.

She shrugged, and set about helping with the routine of feeding and watering livestock. Irena had gone to check on the welfare of her Pegasus, indulgently fending off excited children who were clamouring to see the amazing flying horse. She said she might take as many as she could manage up for a ride, if your parents permit. To occupy the time until my co-pilot and navigator is…. _well_ … again.

She pitched in on feeding the oxen, alongside several black-skinned farmhands and a pleasant red-haired guy in his middle twenties, who moved in a suspiciously familiar manner and was easy to get along with.

"Shame about baby sister." he said, laconically. "If I know big sister, she's going to be _furious_. Somebody's guava is going to get kicked."

Heidi nodded, soberly.

"She'll live, though. In a way, it's good for somebody in this trade to pick up a scar or two early on. To remind them how dangerous it can be."

"Ah-huh. I hear big sister nearly had an arm ripped off by a leopard. She showed me her scars. But she killed the leopard."

He didn't sound surprised. They worked on together. Heidi spoke about leaving home early and being sent to the faraway Assassins' School. Where Big Sister had been one of her teachers and was now a colleague.

"Bet nobody misbehaves in _her_ classes." Danie Smith-Rhodes reflected, a younger brother with experience of his sister.

"Never more than once." Heidi agreed. Then she asked, out of curiosity, "Danie, have _you_ never wanted to see the big world outside Howondaland? You know, to travel a bit?"

Johanna's brother blinked in honest bafflement.

"Why should I? National Service was enough. Everything I need is here. No need to travel further than Piemburg."

Heidi shook her head and got back to work, having decided that a good-looking Boor boy, as Danie definitely _was_ , if you were to ask her, wasn't really enough. Nice guy, though. She might perhaps permit herself a flirtation. You know, _practice_.

* * *

Vimes put the report from Cheery alongside the account he'd received from Julian Smith-Rhodes. He regarded that as information from a _very_ reliable source.

He summoned Carrot and asked him to back up the party in the Undercity with more Dwarf officers.

"It's their home turf, and they can hunt a few rats." he said. "If it comes to a fight down there, I want _dwarfs_."

"Already done, sir." Carrot replied, smoothly. "I sent six Dwarf officers down there to relieve the human officers. Who've been in there for twelve hours. Cheery's posting her Dwarfs on every known access route to that cellar. To ambush them when they try to make it back."

Vimes nodded.

"So long as they're careful about bagging any _actual_ rats." he said. "Vetinari was explicit about that. We don't want them eating his pets."

"Operatives, sir." Carrot corrected him. Vimes grunted.

"And get a presence as close to Spa Lane as we can manage, without potentially scaring anything off." Vimes directed. "If they're going for Johanna, I want her to have support nearby."

"I can have CSP watching the street side, sir. There's a disused shop in Hope Square, premises currently vacant, that we can use as a temporary Watch House. If CSP raise the alarm, we can be round the corner on Spa Lane inside two or three minutes."

"These people are _dangerous_ , Carrot. They've already killed one Watchman and injured another. Take a couple of trolls and at least one golem."

"Will do, sir. Any news on Officer Politek?"

"Still detained in Howondaland, apparently. We're despatching a follow-up mission to check she got to her destination. She was apparently last seen receiving her passenger over the Circle Sea. They did leave her return flight to her own discretion, though. Sensitive mission, apparently."

* * *

DeKoenig quickly threw the tainted meat over the dividing hedge, to land on Johanna's back lawn. In the grass, it would be invisible to humans until they were right on top of it. But _very_ visible to dogs.

Taking out those two Ridgeback dogs the woman kept was a part of the strategy. Nobody wanted an angry Ridgeback going for his throat in defence of its mistress. De Koenig had therefore been sent out, to go first to that bent apothecary and get a fast-acting poison, something that worked on dogs, and then to a butcher's shop to buy a couple of pounds of good meat to inject it into. He had come back, shaking his head and remarking about the crazy little woman in the shop who had just stood there and glowered at him. The shopkeeper had said, in a low whisper, "Pay no attention, sir. That's the way of things with Marietta Cosmopilite. She's harmless."

He had heard about her in the Troll's Head. They had gathered that she was a mad old woman, but one who people looked after as if she were some sort of _fetish_ – what was the word here? _Talisman_. But some of the bros in the Troll's Head had apparently paid some Dwarfs a few shillings to go and look through her bedroom window and _leer_. You know, their idea of a joke.

And De Koenig had gone against duPlessis in this matter. If he had a redeeming feature, he was fond of dogs. He'd kept ridgebacks, in fact. He appreciated watching the way they had with the blecks. They'd bought a pair to the camp at first, to help keep the goblins in line. Man, the fun the ridgies had had with their goblin chew-toys!

Then they'd caught some jungle sickness and died. Jungles were not a place for veldt-dogs. De Koenig had been broken up. He'd have cried, if that had not been a moffie sort of thing to do.

No. He couldn't kill a pair of ridgies. Not even moffie ridgies, that had incredibly been taught to treat blecks as if they were _people_.

He'd asked for a dose of a strong sedative that would send a large powerful dog to sleep for forty-eight hours. The apothecary had complied. And now, injected into the meat, it had been flung where the dogs would find it irresistible.

Task completed, he returned to the house. More men were arriving, the hired muscle, the meat-shields, in groups of ones and twos. By nightfall they'd have enough men for the attack. They passed the time eating their unwilling hosts' food, and cleaning and checking weapons.

* * *

Nobody from the attacking gang was watching the street side of Spa Lane. That would prove to be their downfall. They'd assumed a heavily pregnant woman on a Saturday afternoon would be confined to her house with no reason to go anywhere and the child not officially due, they'd discovered, for another few weeks. Thus, they missed seeing a cab leave the house, followed shortly after by the arrival of Julian Smith-Rhodes and then, three quarters of an hour later, Miss Ruth N'Kweze, arriving discreetly. They'd been invited to Saturday night dinner with the promise of an overnight stay. The Assassin detail at 18 Spa Lane noted that one other very capable Assassin had arrived at the house, and put it in their log. They paid scant attention to Rivka bin-Divorah arriving a little later. A School student visiting her teacher's home address wasn't unusual, and anyway, Doctor Smith-Rhodes employed trusted students to walk her dogs.

From a position up on the Tump, Detective-Constable (Special) Grace Speaker, ostensibly a private citizen walking a dog, noted the same things for her report. Walking dogs was part of her life. It was not unusual for a pet-shop owner to leave the shop in the care of assistants and take dogs for a walk. A Special Constable in the Watch, she didn't mind combining two jobs. It made life more efficient. In her pocket was a signal rocket she'd been instructed to set off to alert the detail in Hope Square if any emergency arose. A gargoyle on the roof of the temporary Watch House was alert for this.

* * *

Irena was startled to witness Johanna's mother and sister marching purposely across the farm complex, each carrying a large crossbow. Heidi shrugged. It was nothing new to her.

"Would you care to join us?" Mrs Smith-Rhodes asked, in Vondalaans. Heidi cheerfully said she'd be delighted, then translated for Irena.

There was a crossbow range, of sorts, on the edges of the farm. Roughly human-size targets were ranged at about seventy yards. Irena noted they had been painted in the likeness of charging native warriors with spears and oval shields. A couple of the farm labourers, allocated a light duty, stood by with crossbows and a crate of bolts. Bows were offered to Heidi and Irena.

A small child tugged at the skirts of Johanna's sister. She ruffled the boy's hair lovingly and said "Not now, dear. Mummy and Granny are _busy_. Go and play."

Irena then stood back, open-mouthed, as Johanna's non-Assassin sister placed several crossbow bolts into a very tight grouping in the target's chest. Her mother did equally well, continually passing the used weapons back to a servant who passed her a loaded crossbow and reloaded the spent weapon. It was a well-practiced drill.

Johanna's sister Agnetha smiled happily. She was blonder than the rest, the red of her hair more muted. She looked like a mumsier version of Johanna, more rounded and well-padded. Heidi wondered if this was how Johanna would end up looking after more children.

"We come here to prectice." she explained, in between shots. "Mother says it's good to let off steam when you are engry. Efter hearing ebout Mariella, we are _engry._ "

"End if _they_ etteck from over the river." the older Agnetha added. " _Everybody_ fights."

Heidi nodded, understanding. Irena shrugged, and decided practicing a Watch skill would do no harm. She appreciated the luxury of having somebody to reload for her. _You could put up a really fast and deadly arrow storm this way. Like we did at the Tobacco Farm. Those native soldiers attack in a closely packed body. No need to aim. You pointed and fired and reloaded as fast as you could._

And then the new Pegasus appeared.

"For us, I think." Heidi remarked. All work stopped as the flying horse descended. It was one of the new pilots with the Service, on one of the Lancre-born mounts. Irena recognised the pilot as Nottie, a trainee witch from Lancre who piloted for the Service when she could, usually during school holidays. She'd petitioned her parents for ponies. Her father had been taken aback when a Pegasus had been born, and bonded to her as the first human it saw who brought it food and water. Her mother had smiled indulgently and persuaded him to let her fly. After all, her mother had said, all _we_ had were broomsticks.

"Hi, Irena. When you were late getting back, they asked me to come out and check. Big Tam up in the mane reckoned he could follow the trail of another Feegle who'd done the crawstep. He led me here."

A small blue shape in the mane nodded acknowledgement of the others. He was a Lancre Feegle who'd been given leave by his Kelda to work for the Pegasus witches and see a bit of the world.

Irena crisply explained why their flight back had been delayed. Nottie nodded understanding.

"Big Tam?"

There was a blue blur as the Feegle raced to her side.

"Aye, mistress?"

"What can we do about this, do you think?"

"Aye, weel. This is a farm, I ken?"

Agnetha nodded a "yes". She seemed amused. Her mother scowled.

"I epologise. Your colleague decided to get incapably drunk with my husband. He's in the house. Sleeping it off. I've said to Andreas thet I'm _not_ emused."

"Ye have a horse-trough, mistress? _Guid_. By your leave." The blue blur raced off. Nottie grinned.

"How's the family?" Irena asked, to make conversation. Princess Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre, heiress to the throne, Nottie to her friends, grinned.

"As always. My snotty little brother constantly complains that as eldest son, _he_ should inherit. Doesn't like the way Mum and Dad decreed the succession should go to the oldest child, which is _me_. He complains in other Kingdoms, older sisters don't count and the Kingship goes to the oldest son, so why should it be _him_ who suffers? But you just can't tell my parents. Personally I want to stand down, and focus on just being a witch. He can _have_ the bloody kingdom if that's what he wants. I'll just stand behind him and shout down his ear if he gets it wrong, the way Mistress Weatherwax and Mrs Ogg do to Dad. But _they_ say it's striking a blow for women everywhere, if the old outmoded practice of only the oldest Prince becomes King is overturned. You know what they're like. Impractical. Good intentions, but utter disasters in practice. And Mum's into this _feminism_ thing. I tell you, it doesn't work in Lancre!"

They heard muffled Feegle swearing and a dragging noise in the earth.

Big Tam, the Lancre Feegle, was dragging a recumbent Buggy Swires by the ankles. Buggy was protesting and weakly struggling.

"Horse-trough's over there."Agnetha Smith-Rhodes said, jerking a thumb.

"I thank ye, mistress." Big Tam said. After a while there was a loud splash and lots more Feegle swearing. The younger Agnetha Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande put her hands over her small son's ears. But something told Irena, possibly a witch-sense, that a lot of children around this farming community would suddenly become tri-lingual in terms of Feegle cursing. Some things were inevitable. She'd already heard the word _"Crivvens!"_ in the middle of a stream of childish Vondalaans.

Big Tam returned to his witch.

"He'll be sober after his dip." he said. "Nothing again' a wee dram, but yon fella's had an awfy _big_ dram. Not guid for the crawstepping, aye."

"A pity you can't do thet for Andreas." his wife said. Her attitude said that it would do him good.

Big Tam grinned.

"It would take more than one Feegle for yon Barbarossa, aye." he said. "Him sitting there and groaning and swearing to lay off the stuff, now he's started seeing wee blue men."

He looked around him, speculatively.

"This earth has guid bones. Ah kin feel them in mah feet. Ah sense it in mah spog."

He stamped on the ground. The Smith-Rhodes women smiled at the compliment.

"We call it the Gods' Own Country, Mr Big Tem." said the older Agnetha.

"Aye, weel. Mah people have a Kelda. She has a daughter, looking to leave and start a clan of her own. I'm thinking. If there are no other Feegle here, this would be a guid land. You know. _Emm-ee-grate_."

Irena and Nottie shared a grin. Heidi tried not to look appalled at the implications. _Feegle. In Rimwards Howondaland._ She considered warning Mr van der Graaf at the Embassy. _Do not issue any entry visas._ Then she reflected the Feegle would never ask for them, or just ignore officialdom anyway. And lots of people had emigrated here. It worked out, more or less. She thought again. _What would happen if a Zulu impi ever tried picking a fight with them?_ And then her appalled expression turned into a wide happy grin.

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes said, briskly, "You've travelled a long way. Stay and hev the evening meal with us."

* * *

Johanna realised there was something wrong when her dogs came in from a run in the garden. They had been patiently trained to do any necessary doggy business in the vicinity of a secluded compost heap, so that Cyprian or Simeon could come along later and discreetly incorporate it into what, in the fullness of time, would become new earth. But she frowned as what had begun as uncharacteristic vagueness and loss of focus became staggering circles, followed by slumping into un-natural sleep. She checked their temperatures and rolled back eyelids to examine the sclera. No eyeball was visible. She called for Op De Veldt and instructed the goblin to clacks for a cab. Ponder offered to look after things and receive the expected guests while she was away.

"I need edvice on this." she said, concerned for her dogs. Mariella nodded, wishing she could go too. She loved those two dogs.

Shortly afterwards, a cab drew up to the house. Claude and Cyprian helped load the dogs aboard.

"Guild of Essassins." Johanna instructed the driver. "Fest."

* * *

In Howondaland, a hungover and chastened Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes presided over dinner for his extended family and guests. It was a cheerful informal occasion, marred only by the threat to family members in distant Ankh-Morpork. Barbarossa was amused that he had a Princess dining at his humble table, and remarked that she wasn't much older than his daughter Mariella. How do you get to own one of those amazing creatures, anyway?

Nottie explained that she was nominally at least a pupil at the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies – her parents had vetoed the Assassins' School – and when the magic had _seriously_ started in her, her school had placed her in the care of Miss Tick, its visiting consultant teacher in witchcraft, for pastoral guidance. Miss Tick had sent her back to Lancre for a year of study leave, where her practical education in witchcraft had been at the hands of people like Mistress Weatherwax and Mrs Ogg. She, Nottie, had just, er, _happened_ to be in the vicinity of Hobley's stud when one of his mares was gravid from a Pegasus stallion. As the nearest witch of any sort, she'd assisted at the birth, and when she'd seen the foal had a pair of folded-back wings close to its body… well, they bond to the first human to give them food and water. Nottie, _perfectly coincidentally_ , had been that first human to tend to the new Pegasus. Spike **(6),** her Pegasus, had been hers from that moment on. So Irena and Olga had invited her to join a small elite of flying horsewomen, despite her only being fourteen.

Barbarossa nodded, encouragingly. Next to him, Agnetha turned and looked suspiciously at his face. She'd been married to him for long enough to know that was the sort of face he showed when he was having _ideas_ ….

"And the Feegle have this magic called the _craw-step_. Only they know how it works, but we discovered that it can get a Pegasus plus load anywhere you like on the Disc practically instantaneously. It only took about half an hour to get here, for instance, and that's the little bit of flying in real space at each end."

" _IzzatSO…"_ Barbarossa breathed. Heidi had heard Johanna using that expression. Usually when she'd realised there was an angle to a situation that she could exploit. Now she saw where it came from.

Barbarossa turned to his farm manager Kurt Maaijande and asked him a question. Then Heidi and the rest realised where his brain was going. Agnetha sat up, startled. But this time she didn't argue with her husband. Nor did she express disapproval.

* * *

Johanna instructed the cabbie to drive right in. She called from the window to identify herself to Mr Maroon the porter and added the word "Emergency."

Leaping out as best she could, she grabbed four pupils and ordered them to go to the Infirmary, alert Matron Igorina, and come back with stretchers. And to _hurry_. She paid off the cab driver, and detailed the students to very carefully carry her dogs out of the cab and load them onto stretchers. A small crowd was gathering. Some girls from her old Raven House, the ones who walked her dogs, realised, seeing the still bodies. There was weeping. Johanna hugged a tearful girl she recognised.

"They're still alive. Barely. I want to esk Igorina whet this, is end to see if there is a remedy."

"You'd better bring them in." Igorina said from behind her. She made no sarcastic cracks along the lines of _"Oh, so I'm a vet now, am I?"_ Johanna had been bracing herself for this. Instead, Igorina behaved with professional concern and care.

"It's a slow day. No _human_ casualties." she explained, walking with the dogs.

Johanna, knotted up with anxiety for her pets, followed. She stopped dead, wincing as a sudden constricting pain gripped her lower stomach.

 _Oh, ye gods! Not NOW!_ she told herself. She took a few deep breaths. Davinia had told her that in the last month, there'd be false alarms. It was just her body getting ready and testing out the muscles it would need. She waited. The constriction did not recur. She put it down to anxiety about her beloved dogs.

* * *

DuPlessis drilled his crew in the attack. Who would go in where. He told them they'd attack just after midnight, as the house was settling down for the night. A henchman raised the issue of payment. DuPlessis growled slightly and reminded them they'd all get fifty dollars each at the end, as agreed. But you killed _everybody_. Men, women, children, goblins. Especially the bloody goblins. Save for the red-haired woman. Who was _his._ He'd kill anyone who got in between him and his vengeance.

* * *

 **(1** ) Sprained Ankle is a trading settlement, and the nearest thing the Central Howondaland Plains Indians have to a permanent town and indeed a capital city. The peace treaty of the previous century is still honoured by the powerful neighbours surrounding the Plains, and Sprained Ankle is a bum diplomatic posting for _everybody._ It's hard to stack the pyramid of gold-foil-wrapped chocolates just so when living in a log cabin. Or a tepee.

 **(2)** New Scrote is the capital of the province of Smith-Rhodesia. Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes wanted his capital city to be named after a bucolic country town in the Central Continent near Ankh-Morpork, where he was born and of which he had good memories. A similar logical process saw a capital city, in our Africa, initially receive the name _Salisbury_ after the charming country town in Wiltshire. After Rhodesia went under new management and became Zimbabwe, it was renamed _Harare._ What Johanna and Julian think of the lowly origins of their family in the village of Scrote is not known.

 **(3)** Look down at your keyboard. The (130) was my error. Hit the 0/) key without hitting shift. Decided to leave it in as an amusing _**Times**_ misprint.

 **(4)** William de Worde had also resolved to run Rupert's copy past the company lawyer prior to print, just to make sure there would be no libel actions. Sacharissa Cripslock had speculated as to whether there would be a market for a news magazine dealing with humorous satire. She thought Rupert would be _perfect_ to produce it. It could be called, oh I don't know _ **, Secretive Glance**_ , or something suggestive of hidden things brought out in the open.

 **(5)** Shameless plug: members of the Clan appear in my story _**Clowning is a Serious Business**_. They return to Ankh-Morpork to look for others who have developed sentience, only to discover Vetinari got there first and recruited them.

 **(6)** After the legendary horse of Queen Ynci of Lancre.


	16. The Battle of Spa Lane, Part Two

_**Nothing to it, really 16**_

 _ **In which a battle happens and matters are resolved.**_

 _ **EDIT: tying up a last loose end and correcting a couple of minor inconsistencies and errors.**_

ברוך אתה ה' אלהינו, מלך העולם...

"That reads as _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam"_ Rivka said, tracing the words on the page from right-to-left with her finger. Ponder nodded comprehension.

"It's one of our oldest prayers. I'm only guessing, but I expect the author started with this prayer to sanctify the work and make it holy unto …"

She didn't voice any names, but pointed upward with a finger. She read on. Ponder, who could read Old Cenotian up to a point, had reasoned that having a native speaker available might add some extra information to the text of the old grimoire, a fifth-hand copy of the original book that he felt he could safely open to a non-wizard.

"It appears to be a set of instructions for writing the chem. The text that goes into the head of a golem and animates it. This is _interesting_!" the girl said.

"That's what I thought." Ponder Stibbons said, equally interested. He considered the implications. HEX could possibly take this and create golems. HEX was un-nervingly capable of many things. But he also understood Lord Vetinari would not be too pleased at any renewal of the ancient craft skills that made golems. Vetinari, with several thousand Umnian golems in his keeping, would take the view that the City had a sufficiency already. And the last time people had made a brand-new golem had been something of a disaster…. **(1)**

They read on together. Ponder decided to recommend to Ridcully that this newly discovered grimoire be safely lost again. The Librarian was _good_ at creatively losing things. But just to be on the safe side, he decided to spend the time until Johanna returned reading and assimilating the book. Claude the butler discreetly announced that it was approaching eleven o'clock, sir. Perhaps the young ladies might care to consider retiring to bed? Madam may not be pleased to return and see them still up.

Ponder wished the others a very good night, and retired to his study to critique the Cenotian grimoire-cum-holy-book. On the surface, it seemed to deal with the adventures of a Prophet called Enoch **.(2)** But as a wizard, he recognised another magic-user had coded his learning into the pages. Enthralled, he read on, scribbling notes now and again, and completely failing to look out of the window.

* * *

Rivka and Mariella were sharing a big double bed in a guest room. They appreciated this. It meant a sort of cosy comfortable togetherness, a long way away from the noise and clamour of their dorm. After the attack at the sports field, neither girl had removed her throwing knives and the loaned pistol crossbows were close at hand.

"I really hope the dogs are alright." Rivka said. "Johanna's been gone for ages now."

Mariella agreed. Something was nagging at her head. It didn't feel right. She felt guilty she hadn't gone out with the dogs when they'd been let out into the garden. If her leg had not been injured, she would have done.

"It's strange that sickness should have come on so quickly. I'm sure it wasn't something they ate here. Johanna gets her dogfood from Grace Speaker's. The best."

"One of those weird plants in the garden, do you think?" Rivka asked. Mariella shook her head.

"No. Doctor Bellamy specifically chose plents thet do not poison or harm dogs. She knows whet she is doing with plents."

They turned over the possibilities together. Then the same appalling thought struck both girls almost at once.

"Do you remember the lesson in dealing with guard dogs? When were were told a good way to deal with big attack dogs is to poison them? You do it at the last possible moment before you make the approach to the target so as not to alert them. Give it long enough for the poison to take affect…."

Mariella sat upright, in horror.

"Johanna may not have realised this! She loves those dogs! Her first thought would be to heal them!"

Mariella was already out of bed and hobbling painfully towards the disused and blocked fireplace at one end of the room. Heating was now done by radiators fed from a boiler in the cellar. She knew the redundant chimney flues were used by the goblins to get to and from the clacks tower on the roof; every fireplace now had a goblin-sized door in the side. She opened this one and called, urgently.

"Wimowe! Wimowe! We need you!"

She heard a distant scuttling. Then the smell of goblin heralded his arrival.

"What so important, Red Vixen Cub?" the goblin demanded, tetchily. Mariella reflected that goblins needed sleep too.

"Wimowe. We're going to be ettecked here. _Tonight_. You must clecks the Guild. End the Watch. The dogs were poisoned to get them out of the way. Thet means en etteck is on the way. Here, tonight!"

The goblin looked thoughtful for a second, then nodded and disappeared.

There was a lot of chattering in the goblin language. She heard the vibrations of feet going up a ladder. She _smelt_ passing goblins. That was unmistakeable. Behind her, Rivka was putting on her boots and buckling a belt over her nightdress, tucking the pistol crossbows through it. She passed Mariella her slippers and a belt and urged her to hurry.

"If we can get downstairs, we can get swords. _Weapons._ A belt is useful." she urged. Mariella nodded agreement. The Guild taught that if necessary, if surprised and needing to dress quickly, grab boots to protect your feet, and _weapons_. Clothes were not as important.

They heard the distant clattering of the clacks tower. And then goblins were screaming in fright and alarm. There were the sounds of running feet, a distant scream, quickly cut off, and the noise of a door crashing open. Then the world changed.

* * *

Julian and Ruth had also settled down into bed. Appreciating each other and enjoying a place where they could be together, he was in a happy semi-doze. But Ruth was restless.

"Something isn't right." she said. "I can feel it."

Julian felt her disentangle from him and get out of bed.

"Hmmmph?" he asked, half-asleep.

"One of my half-brothers described a time out patrolling the border. He said he thought things weren't right and the night felt wrong. Then your bloody lot pulled a night ambush." she said. "I felt this myself, on a night when a pack of hyenas were on the other side of the kraal wall. You know. Sizing up the buffalo pens. Sense of menace. Oppression..."

She opened the window slightly. Julian heard a distant noise, as if somebody was trying to move heavy things silently but hadn't quite managed it. It sounded like a double thump, of something dropping into vegetation, a very soft muted slam. He sat up.

Ruth gasped. Then she ran to where she'd left her weapons and picked up two pistol crossbows. Julian distractedly took in the sight of a naked dark-skinned girl focusing on selecting her target. It was, he thought, a distraction. Then he realised the significance of what was going on and leapt out of bed, groping for his britches.

Ruth took a shot. There was a scream from below, which became a sudden strangled gurgle. She aimed and fired with the other crossbow.

"Missed. Damn." she said, laconically, and stepped out of line of sight to reload. A single crossbow bolt thudded into the window jamb inches from where she had been. A second and third followed.

"At least get some boots on." she said to Julian. "And for goodness sake, grab your bloody sword!"

Ruth dropped to all fours as more crossbow bolts came back at her. One shattered the glass of the window and embedded itself in the ceiling. Coming up on the opposite side of the window, Ruth snapped off two more shots. There was another scream. She ducked out of sight again.

"I counted at least fifteen men. Maybe more. Attacking this house." Ruth said, calmly.

In the distance, voices were shrieking "Alarm! Alarm! Under attack!"

She recognised Rivka bin-Divorah.

Got to get those girls out." she muttered, pulling her boots on.

"Err, Ruth. _Clothes_?" Julian prompted her. She smiled, slightly. Ruth dragged on the long baggy-legged knickers she'd been wearing, pulling them on over her boots, he noticed. They were incongruously frilly.

"Thanks, Julian. Can't go into battle _completely_ naked. It's taboo. Bad _muti_." she said. She buckled her Assassin weapons belt around her and they went to the door. They heard the crash of the front door being smashed down, and feet clattering in, and the shouts and roars.

"Ready?" she said at the door. "One, two, three…"

And then she ululated a Zulu battle cry. Once again, Julian was grateful _this_ Zulu was fighting on the same side as him. Ruth waited as rushing feet crashed by. Then as somebody tried the door, she nodded at Julian, and opened it…

* * *

Claude the butler had supervised clearing up after dinner. Finally everything had been cleared up and Dorothea had supervised washing-up and cleaning the kitchen to her satisfaction. The servants had retired to their beds, but Claude was aware the Professor was working late in his study, which had a door that backed onto the living room. Besides, Madam was not yet home after the emergency with the dogs. He would need to be up to welcome her on her return and to ensure any comforts she required would be provided. He also knew that with Madam away, the Professor tended to gravitate to working into the small hours of the morning, as he understood the Professor had been accustomed to do at the University. Madam tended to strongly discourage this, if she were there. But tonight she was not here to remind her husband that it was getting late.

Claude sighed, resignedly. He might be called upon to summon the duty goblin and clacks an order for delivery of fast food, perhaps the white person's strange delicacy called _pizza_. None of the servants understood why a rich white master should even contemplate this, a mess of poor meats and bad cheese on soggy dough, with so many better foods to choose from.

He reached for the wine bottle he had secreted away when clearing up. It was a shame the Master and his guests had left it half-empty. But no matter. It was a recognised butlerian perk, his mentor Mr Willikins had said. Claude poured himself a glass. A Barossa valley _spatzendreck,_ a good vintage. Madam had once said her father was from the Barossa river country and had moved Hubwards.

He frowned as the Professor's wizarding staff began, of its own accord, to shift and rattle in its mountings. He was not unduly perturbed by this. He understood it to be a larger version of the pointing-bone, used by witch-doctors in his own society.

"You. Behave!" he said to the staff, and took an end-of-day drink.

And then he heard the shouting and the screams. He went to the door and looked into the corridor. To see the front door beginning to explode inwards under the impact of heavy blows.

Claude thought quickly, and retreated into the room. He selected the right key and locked the corridor door. Then he wedged a heavy chair under the door handle and swiftly set about arming himself. Better the intruders _not_ have access to Madam's weapon collection in this room.

Without haste, he unlocked the armoury chest, selecting crossbow bolts, looking for something else he knew Madam kept in there. With a grim smile, he threw a handful of caltrops down in front of the door. If they broke this door down, they'd have a _surprise_ underfoot. He reasoned that Captain Smith-Rhodes and Her Royal Highness would not be caught by surprise and would defend the young ladies upstairs. _Her Royal Highness. Hah._ Claude, who was not a Zulu and came from a tribe that had differences going back centuries with the Zulu Empire, shook his head. The Princess could fend for herself. She was trained to. He could focus on defending the Professor, who by marriage was a Smith-Rhodes, as well as his employer.

Claude heard a window smash behind him. He heard scrambling and indistinct shouting. He turned, realising they must also have broken in through the Professor's study window. Attacked on two sides. _This would not do_. He knew the heavy door on this side was securely barred. His duty was now clearly to the Professor. Holding the bayonetted crossbow in the crook of his arm and a jungle machete in the other hand, he grinned and took a step towards the study. Mr Willikins had hinted this sort of thing would happen occasionally, and he had _missed_ this since leaving the Army.

And then the wizarding staff rose vertically off its mounting, the knob on the end moved as if sniffing out a direction to move in, and it turned in the air before pointing towards the study door.

Realising, Claude opened the door, took in the scene, coughed discreetly, and said "Your Staff, sir." Then as the staff zoomed to its Wizard, he selected a target and fired.

* * *

Johanna accepted a cup of tea from Igorina. Something was telling her she ought to be home. She felt very tired, and her thought processes were glacially slow compared to usual.

Igorina looked at her sympathetically. She'd taken blood samples from both dogs and had very carefully purged their stomachs, a procedure that necessarily had to be done slowly and carefully on an unconscious subject. She had performed tests, consulted reference books, and at one point had given Johanna a long suspicious look as she tried to hide a new set of belly cramps.

"You're starting to have contractions, aren't you?" Igorina said, outright. Johanna nodded.

"Thought so." Igorina said. Waters not broken? No? Probably just precursors. You know, false alarms. But when the waters break, _hospital_. No. Arguing!"

Igorina went back to checking and testing samples. Then she whistled.

"Well, not poison or venom. You need to know this is a strong sedative drug. They'll both wake up in a day or so, as healthy as old, with muzzy heads. I've got semi-digested meat in the expelled stomach contents here, which seems to have been the means of entry into their systems."

Johanna sat up. The horrible implications belatedly registered with her.

Drugged meat.

"Somebody gave drugged meat to my dogs." She said. Igorina nodded.

"No other way."

 _And I was so anxious for my dogs that I didn't think…_

"I need to get home." Johanna decided. " _Fest_. Igorina, cen you look efter them for me? Explain to eny of the girls who esk, thet they're going to be fine."

Reflexively, she checked her weapons. Igorina looked more disapproving than ever.

"If you _think_ you're going out _fighting_ …"

"In my condition. Yes. I _know_. But if I read this correctly, they're _ettecking my home_ , Igorina!"

Igorina was about to say "So leave it to the other people who are guarding you…" and then the Duty Assassin was running down the stairs to find her. With a clacks flimsy. It was the message Mariella had shouted up the chimney to the goblins, more or less.

"My sister is not inclined to jump at shedows." she said. "Get a coach. A _fest_ one. Does Lord Downey know this?"

"Fortunately, Doctor Smith-Rhodes, I do." Downey appeared, in dressing gown over pyjamas. "A coach is being made ready."

They rushed out of the Infirmary to the yard. Igorina shrugged. The dogs were sleeping and would wake with no ill-effects. Maybe not for twelve hours yet. She could safely leave them. She grabbed the ready black bag she took when she was called on to support field operations, and followed. Igors _know_ when they will be needed.

* * *

The Duty Sergeant brought the clacks to Commander Vimes. He read it, frowned, and called for Angua. She read it too.

"Signed MSR." Vimes said. "The SR bit is Smith-Rhodes, yes. But the _M_?"

"Mariella, sir. The younger sister. I've met her. She's a steady kid. Not one to cry wolf or raise false alarms." Angua said.

Vimes grunted. He thought _one_ Smith-Rhodes might be enough for any city. Having to get to grips with _three,_ at the last count, was a new phenomenon.

"Alert the detail in Hope Square." he said. "Have them get round there and check. And Gods help the kid if this is a false alarm."

He considered. "Get a good coach. I'll go myself. You too, Angua."

* * *

The evening at the Bellamys, just down the road, had been a relaxed one. Not too far away from her own due date, Davinia Bellamy had been happy at Peter's suggestion that he order in a Ghatian takeaway dinner for everyone. _Everyone_ included the detail of four Assassins, a rotating squad who used her address as a base to keep covert watch on Number Eighteen and to act as a rapid-response team if they were needed. They were a pleasant bunch, three fairly recent graduates led by a Senior Assassin with experience. All three recent graduates had been taught by Davinia and Johanna, and were pleased to be doing a service for old teachers they'd liked and respected.

Emmanuelle de Lapoignard had dropped by, flush with pleasure that her intermediaries had finally concluded the purchase of Four Spa Lane. She had brought fine sparkling wine to celebrate with her new neighbours.

As Tim and Martin were listening to tales of the Final Run from their guests, Emmanuelle did the courteous thing to her non-smoking hosts and went for a cigarette in the back garden. Here she spoke to the fourth member of the team, who was the duty sentry, watching and listening.

"Hard to tell with these high hedges." she said, apologetically. "But you can see the upstairs of Number Eighteen. Lights on. Looks like people are going to bed. No signs of alarm, perfectly normal. But listen."

They listened together. The sounds of the City filtered back to them, distant and muted. But something else was there too. It suggested people trying hard not to make a noise. Something expectant.

"Something's wrong." the sentry said. "But I can't figure out what."

Emmanuelle pinched out her cigarette. A lighted cigarette was highly visible at night. She sensed this might be wise.

They waited together, listening, using their senses, tasting the night.

And then the clacks tower on the top of Number Eighteen leapt into life, using the coloured lights the clacks employed by night. Emmanuelle was no expert, but she'd tried to learn some of the patterns. You never knew when the knowledge might be useful.

"Is it normal for them to send and receive at this time?" she asked.

The sentry-Assassin shook her head. Ninety percent of their traffic is to and from the University." She said. "But Arch-chancellor Ridcully sends most of that, and he tends to go to bed fairly early at nights."

She suddenly jerked her head up, startled. "I'm reading… _Emergency_. And that's Guild code for _Alert!_ "

And then they heard the soft muted thuds and the sounds of a lot of men moving who were trying to stay quiet. Metal chinked. Then there were two screams in the night and the distant unmistakeable sound of crossbow bolts hitting wood…

"Turn out the guard!" Emmanuelle called. "Alert!"

* * *

Rivka could not lock the bedroom door. But she dragged a chair across the room and wedged it under the handle. She turned to Mariella.

"That is the best we can do. I'd need two of us to drag that chest of drawers over and, no offence, with your leg you're at most one-and-a-half."

"None taken." Mariella assured her.

A voice demanded they come out. Something large and heavy began hammering on the door.

"Crossbows first, I think." Mariella said. "Then throwing knives."

Rivka nodded assent.

"I counsel we each keep one knife back. For stabbing. Conceal it so they think they only see a frightened little girl. Sob. Say "don't hurt me!" Then when he's near enough, _stab._ "

"A _terrified_ little girlie." Mariella said. Rivka nodded.

"Me too. But what choice do we have?"

They stood back from the door, ready to shoot the first person to come through. They heard a distant ululating battle-cry. It sent a shiver through Mariella's ancestral memory.

"Miss N'Kweze." Rivka said, laconically. "She says silence is all well and good, but a good war-cry that says "I'm a Zulu and I've got a big spear!" really _scares_ the other fellow."

"It scares me." Mariella agreed. Rivka smiled slightly.

"Well, yes. From a Zulu point of view, you're the sort of fellow she _wants_ to scare. The bad neighbour over the river."

There was as noise from the goblin-door in the chimney stack. They turned. Wimowe was urgently beckoning them.

"Red Vixen-Cub! Girl-Prickly-As-Desert-Cactus **!(3)** This way! Hurry!"

" _Girl-Prickly-As-Desert-Cactus?"_ Rivka demanded.

"You've got a Goblin name now." Mariella said, squeezing through the goblin door. It was a tight fit, but she made it. Rivka heard "It's a compliment!" in the muffled distance. She shrugged, and followed. A goblin closed the door behind them as men tried to smash down the door to an empty room.

* * *

Two goblins made it to the roof tower and began transmitting emergency messages. The rest of the house goblins conferred and ran to the kitchen. Looking out through the dark night, their night-adapted eyes saw part of the back garden hedge collapse downwards as large heavy planks of wood were dropped into place, crushing Davinia Bellamy's carefully selected inimical border plants beneath them. Men ran across the makeshift drawbridges, thus bypassing the first line of defence. They were armed.

The goblins looked at each other, then one opened a certain drawer and started passing out Dorothea's kitchen knives. The cook had flatly forbidden the goblins from even entering her domain. What she'd do if she found them stealing her knives and meat cleavers was potentially frightening.

But the oldest goblins, the ones who'd endured slavery in Howondaland, smelt Howondalandian in the cocktail of human smells drifting in from out there. Not just any Howondalandian. At least one of their former slave masters was out there. That was more frightening than an enraged Dorothea.

Several goblins slipped quickly out of the kitchen door to hide and await a moment. Others vanished, now armed, into the network of chimney flues.

* * *

Ponder Stibbons realised he was no hero. He cheerfully admitted this. Even though his courtship and marriage to Johanna had led him, often unwillingly, into several bowel-clenchingly frightening places at her side.

As the study window exploded inwards in a shower of wood and glass shards, he returned to the everyday world from his rapt study of the Old Cenotian grimoire. Watching first two heavy-set thugs, and then the man he recognised from the iconographs as Benckel, climbing in through the window, he sat, frozen with terror.

Benckel whistled with surprise as he recognised Ponder. His henchmen sniggered with malice.

" _You,_ wizard-boy? I thought we hed killed you thet night et the fectory."

Ponder realised now he was no hero. He'd never wanted to be one. Otherwise he'd have said something laconic like "I'm hard to kill." and fired a ready spell. But he had no ready spells. Even though a part of his mind was racing and trying to think of one.

"You got an innocent man who just happened to look like me." he said. Then anger surged. He remembered Anthony Theopracticus. "You bastards."

Benckel grinned.

"Exectly correct." he said. "besterd by birth, besterd by inclination."

He raised his crossbow. Then decided to be sadistic, and pretended to contemplate the machete in his other hand.

"Crossbow bolt or blade, wizard-boy? You decide which kills you."

Then Ponder spoke a spell. There was an octarine flash. The hench-thugs dived for cover. Benckel looked down at the bouquet of roses in his right hand and scowled.

"Thet wes a good crossbow, wizard-boy! You'd better bleddy change it beck!"

Ponder winced. Why did all spells, when you wanted one in a hurry, seem to default to Eryngeas' Surprising Bouquet?

Then he heard Claude cough discreetly.

"Your Staff, sir."

Ponder, amazed, watched his staff shoot into the room. It appeared to somehow be _aware_ , diverting its course in mid-air to wallop one of the grinning thugs across the head. Then it flew to Ponder's hand as the henchthug grunted and dropped. At the same time, there was the snap of a discharging crossbow and the second henchthug staggered, a look of surprise on his face and a crossbow bolt in his heart. Red started to blossom on his chest.

 _A wizard's staff will always seek to defend its owner…_

Ponder stood.

" _Riggght!"_ he said, angry. He was now in touch with the reservoir of spells represented by his staff. Primal wizard-thoughts surged through him. Now he could _zap_! A little part of his brain realised that the old-time Wizards must have thought like this _all the time_. He grinned and tipped the metaphorical pointy hat to them. Henry Dean and Ridcully would have expressed pride.

Benckel looked from angry wizard to resolute armed butler. He dropped the flowers, grabbed a crossbow from the dead henchman, and leapt back out of the window just as Claude finished reloading.

"This is not over, wizard-boy!" he called from the dark.

Claude coughed again.

"I earnestly recommend that Sir retreats to the living room." he said. "That is a defensible position. I have made it so."

Ponder fired a stream of zapping energy out into the night through the shattered window. There was a regrettable lack of agonised screaming. But he grinned and followed. He was a wizard defending his version of the high tower. His home, his wife, her sister, his unborn child. That gave him a _right_ to zap things.

* * *

DuPlessis noted, without undue surprise, that two of the meat-shields hadn't even made it to the house. But that was what they were there for. To be expendable. Two less to pay fifty dollars each to, afterwards. As the front door caved in, he stood to one side and bellowed to the meat-shields to move on. They'd take the first shots back, and leave the four _important_ members of the party unscathed. He was aware the target kept weapons in her main room, some sort of display. They'd be useful if they could get to them. Deny anyone in the house the chance to arm up. He was annoyed to find the door locked and barred, and left deKoenig in charge of some of the meat-shields to try to knock it down. Reasoning the target would be upstairs in bed, he urged more of the meat-shields upstairs, he and Ouistrehaam following on behind. They kicked on doors, ignoring empty rooms. One door gave slightly, indicating it was occupied and had been barricaded. He shouted for the occupants to give themselves up and lied that they would not be harmed.

"We've got to hurry!" a meat-shield said, agitated. "Didn't you see their clacks tower was working? Sending messages?"

The clacks did not exist in Rimwards Howondaland. But duPlessis saw the point. He took two of the meat-shields and ran on, looking for the upper stairway, a way to the roof. As they found a stair to the upper floor, the servants' quarters, he heard the one sound that made his bowels knot in fear. A Zulu battle cry. He'd fought those fierce evil bastards. They terrified him, though he would not admit it. A door burst open and a terrible apparition emerged, a Zulu woman naked except for long frilly white bloomers. The absurdity of it didn't register as much as the sword in one hand and a crossbow in the other. Behind her, a well-built red haired man, naked to the waist, but also sword-armed. He scowled. _The Smith-Rhodes bastard. So he's porking the kaffir girl._

They met the meat-shields head-on. DuPlessis did not stop to watch the fight, nor did he intervene. He urged his meat-shields on up the stairs. That tower had to be destroyed. _And_ those verdammte goblins who operated it. Wherever they were hiding, cowardly little filth.

DuPlessis completely failed to see that two more meat-shields, the last two, never made it to the house. As they ran to the door, goblins armed with Dorothea's kitchen-implements got them, without fuss and with little chatter, from behind. It was _fairly_ quick.

* * *

At first, Julian made to chase duPlessis and his two thugs. Ruth grabbed his arm.

"If the servants have any sense, they'll lock themselves in their rooms." she said, urgently. "Concentrate on _these_."

She fired both crossbows into the first of the thugs rushing up the stairs. Both bolts hit, slowing the rush. Then she screamed a war-song and leapt forward, dropping the spent bows and raising her sword. Julian leapt after her, exploiting the confusion of men whose brains were fused by the mixed signals sent out by a near-naked woman carrying a long sharp sword. Only two men at a time could come after them. Julian made things more confused for them by punching an attacker in the face with the hilt of his sword, sending him staggering back down the stairs, sending other men flying with him. He ducked a random crossbow bolt, hearing an angry Howondalandian-accented voice urging them on. He scowled. He had the dead men at the Embassy to avenge. They waited for the attackers to come again, dodging a random and badly aimed crossbow bolt. Ruth tossed him a pistol crossbow. She had reloaded both weapons quickly.

"Save it for anyone you spot with a crossbow." she said.

And then there was a massive explosion downstairs.

* * *

Mariella remembered little of the mad scramble down the chimney flues, guided by the goblin Wimowe. Soot and scabs of old fires rubbed and flaked off onto her skin. She tried to move down ladders designed for goblins with only her good foot, trying to ease her damaged leg. For a moment she felt concerned about the rapidly blackening nightgown rucking immodestly up about her waist, then shrugged. Who was there to see, other than goblins? She reflected that the Guild of Chimney Sweeps used children of her own age and less to manually clean chimneys. These old stacks and flues had been designed for them. Therefore she had no fear of being trapped in there. She swore luridly **(4)** as one of the pistol crossbows fell from her belt and rattled off somewhere, bouncing away in the dark, lost to her. _how am I going to explain that to Johanna?_ she asked herself _. It's her weapon. On loan._ **(5)**

And then there was light and another goblin door was opening. Wimowe made an ironic bow and ushered her out. Claude the butler turned and regarded her with mild surprise. He and Ponder had overturned the big table, tipping it on its side to act as a makeshift palisade. Goblins were loading crossbows for them. Mariella noticed the panels of the door creaking and splitting under heavy battering.

"Ah, Young Madam." he said. "And Miss bin-Divorah. May I suggest the young ladies arm themselves with weapons of their choice?"

His free arm took in the walls. There were lots of weapons to choose from. Mariella patted down her now grimy nightdress for modesty's sake and appraised the selection.

* * *

Women were screaming in the servants' quarters. DuPlessis decided the kaffirs could wait. There were two younger women the surviving meatshields could have, as a perk. But not yet. He let them lead the way. Then an impossibly tiny door opened. What looked like a sharp butcher's knife tied to a mop handle stabbed out. It took the leading meatshield in the leg. He screamed in pain and surprise and fell.

DuPlessis leapt over his body and chopped down at the mop handle in passing. It split halfway through and was quickly withdrawn. He kicked the door shut. But at the end of the corridor, a ladder bolted to the wall led to a skylight. He made the other meatshield climb it _first._ Then when nothing happened to the hired help, he followed, feeling night air on his face.

* * *

As the living room door crumbled under the battering, holes began appearing in the panels. Rivka bin-Divorah stepped carefully forward, avoiding the caltrops underfoot. She fired through one of the holes. There was a scream of surprise and the battering briefly stopped. She fired again. She heard the thump of bolt hitting flesh. Then she stood back to reload.

A voice was heard to shout "Where the Hell is Benckel? We could use one of his little toys here!" It had a Howondalandian accent.

Mariella remembered Benckel was the one who did bombs. If he was here and had explosive devices, this was not good. A bomb thrown in the room could kill them all.

"A bomb?" Ponder growled. She reflected he was being uncharacteristically pugnacious. A wizard, angry and holding a fizzing staff. Her Assassin teaching said this was _not_ a good thing, _whichever_ side you were on. She urgently gestured for Rivka to find cover and ducked behind the sturdy oak table.

"I'll show them a bloody explosion!"

Rivka, realising, leapt behind the table. She, Claude and Mariella ducked as low as they could get. Dry, old, words were spoken. Then there was a massive, octarine-tinged explosion. Bits of door, door frame and wall went everywhere.

She heard Ponder say, in a cold angry voice,

"This house is _mine._ Well, half-mine. If anyone's blowing a bloody door off in my house, it's going to be _me!"_

"Well done, sir." Claude said. "But I fear if you were only going to blow the bloody door off, you over-did it somewhat." **(6)**

In the corridor, de Koenig was bullying and pushing his dazed henchmen forward to enter the room through what was now an overly large hole in the wall. Part of the ceiling sagged. Plaster dust filled the air.

The first meatshields through the door were hit by a volley of crossbow bolts. The caltrops were a courtesy detail. Then it was hand-to-hand fighting. Claude diligently tried to put his body between the attackers and the girls. But the biggest and most brutal looking went for Mariella.

"Still not dead, girlie?" he demanded. "I'll fix thet!"

Mariella hardly had time for a contemptuous " _Voetsaak!_ " before he was on her. And all she had to fight back with was a throwing knife. She ducked and dodged as best as her wounded leg would allow. But the traitorous leg collapsed under her. She could feel new pain and the wound breaking open into fresh blood. She fell on her back and rolled and dodged the wildly swinging machete. Her arm groped for something she could use to pull herself upright. She found it: it felt like a pole of some sort. Grabbing it to raise herself, it came away from the wall and sent her sprawling again. Desperately, she rolled to evade the blade and for want of anything better, pushed the pole at the big man to ward him off. There was a light of vicious triumph in his eyes as he raided his blade. And then it died and faded into surprised agony as the cavalry lance she was holding hit him in the chest. Mariella thrust it upwards with desperate last-resort strength.

And de Koenig, the man who had a stated preference for young pale redheads, slid down the length of the lance that was now sticking right through his chest. Mariella closed her eyes. She _really_ didn't need to see the pennant on the end had _also_ gone right through his body. It might have been yellow-over-blue. But now it flopped a damp red. It dripped.

And then the full weight of the man's body landed on her. It hurt. Mariella's last thought before sinking into unconsciousness was _It could be worse. He could still have been alive before getting on top of me. To do… ag!_

* * *

The dwindling band of men on the stairs retreated backwards as Ruth and Julian fought them down. They could see now the hole in the wall where the living room door had been. Dust and grit filled the air. A man backed out of the living room, his nerve evidently gone, and ran out of the front door. Several of the men on the stairs joined the rout. But an agonised scream from outside brought them up short. Then they paled, as a round football sized object was contemptuously thrown into the hall. It was the head of the man who had tried to run. Julian winced. He knew goblins did not mess about when they were angry.

He heard running feet in the corridor beneath. One of them was evidently trying a different escape route. He did not recognise any of the men he saw as being from the core Howondalandian gang. But it was almost over. Without the Howondalandians to drive them on and no means of escape, the hired thugs were throwing down their weapons and surrendering. Which only left….

* * *

 **(1)** See, of course, _**Feet of Clay**_ by Sir Terry Pratchett.

 **(2)** I know. The lost book of the Bible again. Can't leave it alone. Maybe this is where Aziraphile sent the only extant copy for safekeeping, hiding it in a magical library on a completely different planet. If confused, see my Good Omens fic _I Shall Endure to The End._ I have an origin story for the Cenotines. Their legend says that G-D turned his back on them and allowed a rapacious enemy to conquer their lost land of Israel. The Twelve Tribes were deported to a place called Babylon, where there was much lamentation at the water's edge. The King of Babylon finally relented and allowed them to return. But ten of the Twelve Tribes drop out of the story at this point. The Bible does not refer to them again. Much speculation has been made and much theological ink spilt concerning where they went to. Whole religions have been born out of the legend of Ten Lost Tribes. What if… a relative of the Witch of Endor, a Naomi Ogg, perhaps, led at least _one_ of those tribes to a new world entirely, a place with a nice familiar Israel-like country called Cenotia… if any Jewish readers want to advise me on the good taste or otherwise of this idea, please PM me.

 **(3)** The literal meaning of the Hebrew word "sabra", connoting fierce fighter. A "sabra" is apparently a sort of edible cactus found in the Negev. Israelis joke that it's hard and spiky on the outside but deceptively soft and sweet on the inside. It's getting past the pineapple again.

 **(4)** Another characteristic of Smith-Rhodes women when irritated, stressed out or needing to vent. Vondalaans/Afrikaans is a most expressive language for cussing in.

 **(5)** Later, Mariella steeled herself to confess to her sister that she'd negligiently mislaid an expensive precision weapon. Then Wimowe the goblin presented it back to her with the words "You're welcome, Red Vixen-Cub, Red-Of-Hair-and-Spear". Mariella realised it had fallen into the goblins' lair in the cellar and been retrieved there. And that she now had the extra honorific part of her goblin name to go with the physical description. She felt honoured. and relieved.

 **(6)** I know. Michael Caine in " _ **The Italian Job**_ ". Couldn't resist.


	17. Due Process

_**Nothing to it, really 17**_

 _ **In which a battle happens and matters are resolved.**_

 _ **Slight edit to address little things, continuity, flow, et c.**_

But it was almost over. Without the Howondalandians to drive them on and no means of escape, the hired thugs were throwing down their weapons and surrendering. The security detail assigned to the Bellamy home ran up the drive of Number Eighteen to find the short, bitter, battle all but finished. Julian Smith-Rhodes was surprised to realise that no more that fifteen minutes, if that, had elapsed since Ruth had fired the first shots out of the bedroom window.

"We realised you must be winning in there when they started running away." The senior Assassin said. "We picked up a couple of runners and got information out of them that they weren't doing so well and they were coming up against heavy opposition. An old-time wizard blasting everything that moves, and some fighting-mad naked black girl guarding the stairs and not letting anyone past, apparently. We guessed about the wizard when we saw the magical fire blasting out of the downstairs window. Made a _hell_ of a mess of the dividing hedge and the neighbour's side wall. As for the naked black girl…."

"Oh _, that_ bit's true." Julian said, cheerfully. "She's utterly insane. Take it from me. Not enough clothes, too!"

The senior Assassin paused, and then hopefully asked

"Err… I don't suppose?"

"Come this way." Julian said. "The last two or three are up on the roof. They've not given in, but they're not really able to get anywhere, either. They're contained."

And then Johanna came home.

* * *

As the last standing attackers retreated in disorder from the living room, Eivka bin-Divorah looked down at the still form of her friend, crushed underneath a huge seemingly dead body, smothered in blood, seemingly dead herself. Her face contorted in rage and sorrow, she slipped out of Claude's consoling arm and ran to the wall of weapons. She considered for a moment, then took down one of the strange-looking _Kande_ throwing knives, one in each hand. Then she went out into the corridor, where Julian and Ruth were disarming and marshalling the surrendering attackers, the few who could still more—or-less stand and who hadn't been all that badly hurt.

She nodded down the corridor towards the kitchen.

"He couldn't leave the front door because of goblins." she said. "The blonde one. The Howondalandian. So he ran that way. Towards the kitchen and the door to the garden."

Julian nodded, distracted. He tried to remember how Sergeant Thiejsmann would have done it in the old days. How did it go? Oh yes.

"YOU! UP AGAINST THE WALL NOW! FACE THE BLOODY WALL! HANDS OPEN! SPREAD FINGERS! FEET APART! MOVE IT!"

Ruth threw another cudgel into a growing heap, well away from any prisoner's reach. Although she noted they were too scared and disoriented to show much fight. Now.

Then a small determined figure in a grimy white nightdress was slipping past her. A glint of metal in both hands.

"Oh, _hell_." she said. "Miss bin-Divorah! You come back here, _right now_!"

Rivka paused for just long enough to say " _No,_ Miss N'Kweze. With the greatest respect."

And then she was gone.

"Oh, Hell's bells!" Ruth grumbled. "Keep these people covered, Julian. Won't be long."

She walked into the shattered living room. A set of boots stood in the middle of the floor near the door, acrid black smoke curling up from them as a last memory of their departed owner. Her view took in the still body of Mariella, just visible underneath the larger body. Claude was kneeling next to her, trying to lift the heavy body off her. Ponder was just standing there, eyes glazed.

"Ponder?" she said, softly. "Come down to earth, man. Right now you're channelling Dean Henry. And you're two hundred pounds too light for that. Not a good look."

Ponder Stibbons shook his head. He looked at the hole in the wall where the door had been.

"Did I do that?" he mumbled, everyday Ponder again. "Johanna's going to _kill_ me!"

Ruth focused. Ponder needed something to do…

"Help Claude. Get that body off Mariella."

Then she made the warrior salute in front of her deceased uncle's weapons, in his honour. Then she took down assegai, knobkerrie and flat hide shield. She considered the head-dress for a moment. Then decided she had a right. She put it on. The ostrich feathers bobbed.

" _Ibutho mthethwa n'UThulwana!"_ she sang, raising the weapons. Then she turned and ran out after Rivka.

* * *

Vimes and Angua led a detachment of Watchmen running down Spa Lane from Hope Square. On the way they were overtaken by a black coach, one that had a certain quality of sleek and stylish about it. It was moving very quickly.

The criminal Benckel, rattled after the encounter with Ponder and Claude, dropped low underneath the window. He intended to pop up again and take an unexpected snap shot at the wizard. But to his horror, an intense heat erupted just over his head. He felt rather than saw, his eyes shutting down in self-defence. But the intense blast of fire set the hedge to his left on fire. It rolled on and scorched the side of the house next door, leaving a deep black scorch-mark on what had once been plaster painted pink **.(1)**

Beating out the fire in his hair, Benckel had run, trying to get to the main attack on the front of the house and security in numbers. He slipped and nearly fell on something wet and slippery in the grass. Then realised he'd come across what was left of one of the meat-shields. He'd seen bodies like this in Howondaland, when turned out under heavy guard to dig graves and collect bodies of the ill-fated Matabele infantry. The goblins had got this man. The bloody _goblins_. They were out here somewhere!

He could see _just enough_ of the corpse in the night. And what he could only guess at was sparking his imagination. He turned and vomited.

He was still careful enough to assess his own route of escape. He registered the group of four black-clad shadowy figures moving cautiously up the drive, making their own assessment of the situation.

 _Assassins. The Guild, looking after its own. Du Plessis is now doomed. I can run. Leave._

He waited in the shadow of a shrubbery, assessing his moment, terrified the goblins, who had reasons to kill him, were coming for him.

And a panicked man, nerve broken, tried to run out of the shattered front door to freedom. Benckel saw the tiny misshapen dark figures leap on him chittering and squeaking. Metal flashed. The man convulsed and screamed. The dark shapes of the Assassins ran forwards towards the noise.

Seeing his chance, Benckel crossed the garden while the goblins and Assassins were distracted, and once on the street, he ran for it.

* * *

Pursuing the criminal Ouistrehaam, Rivka bin-Divorah slipped cautiously out of the open kitchen door into the back garden. She saw a dark figure moving towards the gap in the back hedge that hadn't been there earlier. This was presumably how they'd got in. She moved quietly to within good throwing distance. As the figure moved to the gap in the hedge and was clearly silhouetted against it, Rivka raised the _Kande_ throwing knife-cum-axe in her right hand. She weighed it up, estimated the distance and the arc, and then her arm dropped, decisively…

Johanna got down, unsteadily, from the coach. She took in the shattered front door and counted at least four bodies in the grass and driveway. One was practically on the doorstep and appeared to have no head.

The goblin Op De Veldt Dese Nacht De Loouw Geschickt, also known as Wimowe, ran diffidently to her, as did the Senior Assassin, Piers Verlinden. Piers was normally the Guild's representative in Sto Kerrig, but had returned to the Guild for a postgraduate course. Finding Johanna much changed for the better from the girl he'd trained with, he had happily volunteered for this duty. Even seeing how she'd changed, he was still wary about trying to bar her from access to her own home.

"Friend Piers. What canst thou tell me about what has come to pass here?" she asked. If she really concentrated, Johanna could refine her speech into something almost but not quite pure Kerrigian. It sounded stilted and archaic, though, with all its _thees_ and _thous_ and _shalts_ and _passeths._ Like the old language her people had taken to Howondaland with them four hundred years ago. Religious texts read in the chapels and kirks on Octeday were in Kerrigian rather than Vondalaans. It added antiquity to the religious discourse. **(2)**

"Thou shouldst know there has been a big fight…" Verlinden began, uneasily.

"Ja, that I can perceive."

"It is unsafe for thee to enter. Some of the foe are still uncaught and about the premises."

"Thank thee, Piers. But it is still my demesne. I will enter within."

She pushed past him as politely as she could manage. Verlinden might be laid-back and partial to strange tobaccos. But he was basically OK. She allowed him to follow her in. Somebody watching your back is always useful.

She stepped around the corpse on the doorstep, trying not to look too closely, and entered, wincing at the damage. Inside Julian and the other Assassins were marshalling prisoners. She took in the dustcloud, the debris, dropped and scattered weapons, bodily parts, arrows embedded in the wall, and the massive hole where the living room doors should have been, She stepped forward, aware of Julian and Ponder trying to shield her from seeing something. Then she saw it. Her sister's still unmoving body. Drenched in blood.

"I'm so sorry, Johanna…" Ponder said. Julian looked grave and sorrowful.

"Where is he, Ponder?" she asked, her voice full of ice and fire. "Du Plessis. _I want him_!"

Matron Igorina bustled in behind her, clutching her black bag. She passed, almost unheeded, into the shattered room and knelt beside Mariella.

"He ran upstairs, Johanna. We think he went up to the roof to attack the clacks tower and the goblins there." Julian said.

Johanna breathed out, hard.

"He's _mine_." she said. Then she turned on her heel and started walking upstairs, drawing her machete. There was an immense dignity in her movement. Nobody tried to stop her or talk her out of it.

"He is _dead_ , is he not?" Piers Verlinden said.

"Very probably." Julian agreed.

"And the irony is, she isn't dead." Igorina commented.

Julian and Piers turned together.

"Just knocked cold. Some bruising, but concussion. Maybe a cracked rib. I'd still get her to the Lady Sybil, though."

Claude the butler smiled an enormous relieved smile. He had not failed the Family, then.

* * *

Vimes and the watchmen were slightly hindered by the residents of Spa Lane, who all seemed to have turned out of their beds to find out what the noise was. One neighbour was making completely out-of-touch complaints about a bloody noisy party at Number Eighteen, and tried to beard Vimes about it. Vimes sighed, and assessed who he could spare for crowd control.

And then the wanted man ran out of the gates of Number Eighteen, saw the Watchmen, and turned right, running in the opposite direction.

"You! Stop, in the name of the Law!" Vimes shouted, pushing away the man complaining about a rowdy party, and led his Watchmen in hot pursuit. Behind him he heard

"Somebody gather up my things, please? And no pervy comments about my underwear, this time!"

There were a series of clunks and clangs. Then a large golden-haired wolf was bounding down Spa Lane, in hot pursuit of Benckel.

* * *

Ouistrehaam was nearly at the hedge. Soon he'd be out in Shallow Valley and running for freedom. The attack had failed, he knew it. De Koenig was dead, that red-haired missie had somehow managed to spit him on a spear. He'd seen it. _What did they teach kids at that school?_ And given the ferocity of the defence, he was sure Benckel and even duPlessis would also soon be dead. Practically all the hired meat-shields had gone down. He could run now. Get away… behind him, he heard what he took to be a spooked bird whirring into the air. The whirring of its wings grew nearer…. And then his right shoulder erupted in pain and he staggered forwards. He tried to get a hold with his right hand to push himself up, get up, continue running… he wondered for an instant why his right hand seemed not to be able to grip anything. Then he saw his right arm. Some distance away. Ouistrehaam realised, feeling the blood pump into empty air. And he screamed. Running feet behind him caught up with him.

Benckel realised. That was the fabled Watch werewolf. And she was coming for him. He ran on, groping in his left pocket for the bottle. A methodical and relatively intelligent man, he'd picked up an insurance policy against werewolves during the raid on Trawlers'. There'd been a whisper that silver nitrate really took care of werecreatures. It sounded logical. He'd therefore added several bottles to the haul. He just needed to undo the bottle, and spray the contents over the verdammte thing.

Running, he bowled over several curious neighbours who were getting too close, threatening others with his machete. Then he saw her.

The Quirmian woman. Standing there in the street with another hugely pregnant female, a blonder, mummy type. He grinned with hatred. Very heavily pregnant. _This might be my last chance for vengeance. She's hardly able to move with that bump sticking out in front. One good swing. Take her in the neck. Pay her back for that guillotine talk. See how she likes it._

He reflected that the bloody clever Igors were said to be able to rescue unborn babies from heavily pregnant women who came to grief. He didn't want a child with vengeance on its mind coming after him in twenty years. Better gut her, too.

He ran towards the two women, who didn't seem to have noticed. _This would be so easy…_

He lifted the machete to swing at her neck. And then the Quirmian woman wasn't there any more… Benckel felt something smash against the back of his legs. He fell over backwards. A massive shock of pain radiated up his sword-arm. The machete fell and clanged on the road.

Then the Quirmian woman was smiling down at him. The point of her sword was at his throat. He felt it penetrate just far enough, and sensed a trickle of warm blood on his neck.

" _Attention, espece de salaud."_ she said. "You are fortunate you are not the one who sought to murder a student in my care. Or I would not currently be debating with myself whether to allow you to carry on living your miserable life. Alive, you are worth a fifteen-thousand-dollar bounty to me. I consider you also owe me for a lost bet last week when you disrupted a running race, upon which I had staked serious money."

She scowled suddenly.

"Should I elect to present the Guild and the City authorities with your lifeless cold corpse, I would lose ten thousand dollars. At this moment, I might consider ten thousand to be a small price to pay for a degree of job satisfaction. For creatures like _you_ make the world cleaner in their passing."

The werewolf had arrived and was just sitting there, listening and not interfering. Benckel had another moment of cold gut-opening terror.

"My friend and colleague Doctor Bellamy stabbed you in the arm to make you drop your weapon. Therefore, I am forced to share the bounty with her, as good manners dictate. I think: two and a half thousand each is not much. But seven and a half each is _better._ And we both have coming children to pay for."

"That's right!" the cheerful mumsy blonde agreed. She had been the one who had kicked his legs from under him whilst Emannuelle side-stepped and drew her sword.

"Thus I declare this contract completed. I hand you over to the City Watch for due internment and lawful process. And may there be a God who is forgiving enough to take mercy on your soul. Angua, _chère amie,_ he is yours."

The werewolf padded forward, regarded him, and growled. Benckel felt cold wet terror pass over him, and gave up.

* * *

Johanna arrived on the servant floor. She saw the wounded man lying there, still holding a weapon, a spreading pool of blood around his leg.

Her whip cracked out and lashed his arm. He shrieked, dropping the crude sword. She stepped forward and kicked it away.

"You made me break a promise there." she said, in a voice radiating menace and rage. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. "I swore never to use a whip in enger near my domestic servants. End I could _kill_ you for intruding on my house. I em minded to do so. But there is a bigger hyena to hunt. _Where is he_?"

The terrified thug pointed shakily at the ladder. Fresh blood welled up from the whip-cut.

She nodded, hearing distant cursing and crashing.

"Gut. Try to stem your blood-loss. People will find you soon. There is an Igorina here who will treat you. Not out of kindness. But to keep you alive for your trial."

Johanna considered the ladder. But du Plessis was at the top of it. She remembered there was another way to the roof. She chose a door and hammered on it.

"Blessing1 Eve! This is Madam. You recognise my voice. I em in control here. Open the bloody door end let me in!"

There was a dormer window in the attic room shared by the two maids, she recalled. She could discreetly let herself onto the roof and approach du Plessis from behind whilst he was taking out his rage on the clacks tower. She fervently hoped she could do this. At least it hadn't been raining and the tiles were not likely to be slippery.

* * *

Ouistrehaam almost whimpered at the sight of the terrifying girl in a soiled white nightdress who was holding a native throwing axe in her hand and showing she knew exactly how to use it. He now knew what had chopped his arm off. And her eyes radiated an absolute lack of anything even remotely close to pity, mercy or compassion.

"Please!" he said. "I'm bleeding to death here!"

The girl considered this. Then she said " _good._ " in a flat, final voice. And then Ouistrehaam saw who – or what – else was running over the grass at him and nearly fainted with fear. He wondered if this was a hallucination brought about by pain and blood loss. For there was a Zulu warrior in a proud ostrich head-dress running at him, assegai raised to stab. The illusion was dented slightly when she skidded on something in the grass and nearly fell over. But she righted herself and bounded up, ululating a war-cry.

Ouistrehaam raised his remaining arm in abject surrender. The Zulu warrior-woman, who he saw was wearing incongruous white frilly knickers, scrutinised him. Then she said

"We need to stop the bleeding. Or else we're delivering a corpse. And that means _your_ fee drops by ten thousand, Miss bin-Divorah."

The Zulu pointed her assegai at his groin.

"You can see where I'm going to stab you if you try anything, don't you? Good. Right, Miss bin-Divorah. A practical lesson in field surgery. We need something to use as a tourniquet. The object is to stabilise him, so as to get him to the Igors for full treatment…"

* * *

Igorina transferred her attention to de Koenig.

"This one's alive, but barely." she said. "The lance went right through his lung. Missed the heart. Sorry, but I've got to do what I can. Code of the Igors. If we all stopped to work out the moral worthiness of patients first, we'd get nothing done."

Julian nodded.

"Best we keep them alive now. So they can hang later." he said. "President van Baalsteuwel wants a trial. So does Vetinari. And you can't try dead men."

He turned to Mariella. She had been laid on a long sofa and a blanket had been found to cover her. Her breathing was good enough to satisfy Igorina, who had deftly re-closed and rebandaged her leg wound, muttering something about wasting her breath and the younger sister being _exactly_ like the elder. The Watch Igor had arrived and was treating other wounded, who were now under guard. Word had come in that Benckel had been detained on the street outside. This now only left two. Claude had gone to the kitchen, with a Watch escort to mind his back, and was preparing hot drinks. There was no word from the roof. Outside, Commander Vimes was shouting into an imp-magnified bullhorn that du Plessis was surrounded. There was no way out. Better he came in and surrendered.

Then word came in that a third had been caught in the garden. An Igor or Igorina was needed. Ouistrehaam, this time.

Which only left one.

* * *

Johanna manoeuvred herself carefully out of the window. It was easy edificeering, barely rating an E0.2 on the scale. She cautiously looked up over the roof ridge. Yes. The bulky figure of duPlessis and his last remaining henchman, taking out their rage and frustration on the clacks tower, which was fairly nearly shattered. He was also demanding the bloody little bastard vermin goblins show themselves for a quick death.

Johanna considered. Then her whip lashed out, winding itself round the henchman's neck. He gurgled and raised his hands to his throat, dropping the axe. It clattered off the rooftiles and over the side, bouncing on the ground. An amplified mechanical voice called "Very clever, du Plessis! I've got Dwarfs down here who can throw axes far better than that. This is almost your last chance to surrender!"

"I egree." Johanna said, and twitched the whip in a particular way, flexing it along its length. As the henchman fell from the roof, it recoiled and returned to her hand. Du Plessis turned and registered her presence. She stared back, without fear.

"I'm the one you want." she said, in Vondalaans. "Why not come at me, _now_ , and settle this?"

She got a secure footing, one foot either side of the roof-ridge. She noted on one side it was a straight drop to ground level. On the other, there was a drop of perhaps one storey to the flat roof of the unused mews, a garage for a coach and up to two horses. She owned neither. She remembered, irrelevantly, that Davinia had demolished hers to make way for more garden space.

The bulky thug screamed hate and rushed at her. Johanna tried to time her defensive swing just so. She felt disappointed to use his own momentum against him to send him on the short drop onto the mews roof, not the long drop on the other side. But she considered, sheathed her machete, then allowed herself to follow him: in a controlled Emergency Drop that left her still standing, more or less, on the flat roof, although the impact on her feet jolted her. She felt it doing something to her system and winced. Something felt like it had just snapped, or ruptured, or gone _ping!,_ inside her. She put a horrible thought out of her mind, as there was nothing she could do about it. Best to resolve the fight first…

She made herself rush towards the still prone body, thinking "This is too easy…"

Du Plessis rose in a fast easy way, his machete coming up to slash. She blocked it, knowing herself to be the better fighter, but knowing him to be strong and powerful. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something white and bird-like in the sky.

 _Pegasus_ , she thought. _Might be Mr Vimes' way of getting more people up here._

Tiring, and aware of the other things that were happening, she hoped they'd hurry. Or she might see the angle for the lucky blow. She half-registered a second Pegasus. The two fighters circled warily, occasionally clashing machetes.

Then the contractions hit Johanna's gut again, stronger than ever.

 _Oh Gods, it hurts! Not NOW!_

She found herself doubling over. Du Plessis laughed.

"Winded, little lady? The baby kicking? We can soon fix that!"

She tried to defend against the killing blow. But it didn't come.

Preet du Plessis was backing away, looking at something behind her, his eyes filled with wonder and surprise. She heard a horse neigh, nearby. He was out of weapons range. She risked a look.

There was a Pegasus.

She recognised Irena Politek by her carriage. She was dismounted, standing by the head of her mount, loudly preventing Buggy Swires from joining the fight. The Feegle was petulantly protesting.

But the passenger who'd dismounted. Who was unhurriedly divesting himself of the long cloak he'd worn as protection against the cold. His size. His bulk. His way of carrying himself.

 _Ag! Taking_ **him** _on the pillion is one big demand on a poor working Pegasus!_ she thought, over the waves of steady pain. She forced herself upright as the huge man stepped forward.

"Du Plessis!" he roared, his voice carrying. "Looks like I got here in time, you pathetic, squalid, little _gogga!_ " he roared, in Vondalaans.

With a shout of anger, du Plessis roared at the big man. Who didn't even bother do draw a machete. He sidestepped with a nimbleness that belied his size and age, and delivered a devastating punch. The machete dropped with a clang. Preet du Plessis staggered back, but did not fall.

"That was for my friend Pieter van der Graaf." The big man said, almost conversationally. "Also my wife's brother. She was distressed to hear you shot him and put him in the hospital. And when somebody distresses Agnetha…"

The big man stepped forward, and punched again. Du Plessis stumbled back further this time.

"…it distresses _me_. And _that_ is for the hurt you have caused to my daughter Johanna, at what should be a happy time in her life!"

Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes stepped forward again. He contemplated du Plessis.

"You should have hanged those thirty years ago. It would have saved a lot of people a lot of grief. What, _still standing_? I must be losing my touch with old age."

There was a third punch. This time du Plessis went down.

"And _that_ one is for my other daughter Mariella! Just a child, but _you still shot her!"_

Barbarossa reached down and picked up the inert body. He moved to the edge of the roof.

"People down there want to talk to you, Preet." he said, in a softer voice. "This looks like the fastest way down."

Johanna intervened, staggering over.

" _Vatti,_ please don't." she said. "not out of kindness. But because he should stand trial for his crimes. Also, he is worth fifteen thousand dollars to me in bounty."

Barbarossa whistled. He dropped the unresisting body onto the flat roof.

" _That_ much? Well, Preet, the daughter you sought to kill is pleading with me not to kill you. She has every reason to see you dead. But _she isn't you_. Because I raised her to be _better_ than that. This is your lucky night, it seems. A man can't say no to his little girl, can he?"

He stood back. Johanna placed a booted foot on the shoulder of the enemy who'd dogged her life for months.

"Preet du Plessis. In completion of a legal contract form the Guild of Assassins of Ankh-Morpork. I am taking you into custody until such time as you may be released to the care of lawful representatives of the city for incarceration, trial and punishment. My witnesses are my father, Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes, and Officer Irena Politek of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch."

She quickly repeated the necessary form of words in Morporkian, and asked Irena if she was carrying any handcuffs.

And then she rushed to her father and hugged him close.

"Nine hundred and ninety times out of a thousand, your grown-up daughters are big girls who don't need you around any more." he said. "But on the thousandth time, a man had better be there for his girl, because she really _will_ need him."

"Good." Johanna said, feeling five or six again.

"Mother's here. She's downstairs." her father remarked. "Couldn't keep her away. Fortunately, there were _two_ flying horses."

Johanna stiffened with horror. She remembered Mariella, silent, still, dead… What her mother could be walking into downstairs… She was distantly aware of Irena having a shouted conversation with the ground. Then Irena shouted over

"Johanna! Your sister's _alive_!"

The older daughter relaxed.

Then she said

"Irena. In the middle of all that excitement I think my waters broke." she said. "How quickly cen you get me to the Lady Sybil?"

* * *

 **(1)** Spa Lane was that sort of suburban street. Johanna preferred white for her house exterior. Others used the full range of exterior house paint schemes. Green, yellow, and pink were favourite colours. The neighbours at number sixteen now had pink with an abstract scheme of sooty black.

 **(2)** apparently this is really how Dutch sounds to Afrikaaners used to speaking a simplified dialect. It's like a throwback to the 1600's. Apparently.


	18. Epilogues and afterwords part one

_**Nothing to it, really 18**_

 _ **Epilogues and afterwords, part one.**_

 _ **In which this part of the ongoing story is wrapped up, for now, but offers further potential beginnings…**_

Sam Vimes was now dealing with the aftermath of an incident where arrests had been made and some seriously bad people were in detention. This made him slightly more mellow. It was the nearest thing to job satisfaction in a Watchman's life. Carrot had arrived, with as many people as could be rounded up. Spa Lane neighbours were now being kept behind Watch barriers, with a cluster of Assassins courteously assisting.

"We got all four, Carrot." he remarked.

"Yes, sir." Carrot replied. "Igor reckons three of them are going to be fit for trial. Benckel came in with minor injuries. Du Plessis is badly concussed and needs restorative surgery to his face. Igor thinks he can sort out the broken jaw inside a week, though."

Vimes displayed silent understanding.

"Remind me to find out who that bloody enormous troll of a man was who nearly threw him off the roof." He requested. "Although I thought I heard Johanna call him "Daddy" from down here." He hadn't attended Johanna's wedding, citing Watch duties. Lady Sybil and Young Sam had gone, though.

"Her father, sir. Yes." Carrot clarified. "Officer Politek took an interesting deposition from him when she was in Howondaland. Apparently he sent duPlessis to jail for the first time thirty years ago."

Vimes grunted.

"And the other two?"

"Igor and Igorina have done all they can here, sir. Apparently to save de Koenig's life he needs major chest surgery and a new lung. They also tell me Ouistrehaam needs a new arm."

"Can't they just sew the original one back on?" Vimes demanded. "When that fighting-mad little girl chopped his arm off, and Gods, _she'll_ be an Assassin to watch in a few years' time, it _must_ have been a clean cut."

Carrot grimaced slightly.

"The arm landed in among some of Doctor Bellamy's _special_ garden plants, sir. Too much time elapsed before we thought to look for it. Igorina said it was too…"

"Spare the details. Please? There are too many bodies strewn about as it is. How many of the thugs they brought with them are still standing?"

"As far as could tell, sir, they recruited maybe twenty fairly nasty people, largely from places like the Troll's Head. Eleven were killed. Six wounded to varying degrees and the other ones surrendered."

"Should clean up our outstanding crimes list. I take it they were all Known?"

Carrot turned abruptly. He registered the girl with blonde-red hair who was inobtrusively listening and taking notes.

"Miss? Who are _you_?"

She smiled happily. Good looks and a big engaging smile were something she'd inherited from her mother. She used her genetic legacy ruthlessly in her work.

"Suki van der Graaf." she said, in a Howondalandian accent. "Reporter for _**de Burger**_ end _**de Volksraant**_. Here, I em _"Our Correspondent From Rimwards Howondaland"_ to the _**Enkh-Morpork Times**_. You must be Commender Vimes end Ceptain Cerrot. _Whet a story!"_

Vimes turned round. He also registered Sacharissa Cripslock and that bloody vampire iconographer moving through the aftermath, and talking to people.

"Ye _Gods._ " he muttered. "Not just the local Press, but overseas reporters _too!_ "

* * *

Suki had heard whispers from political contacts in Pratoria that there'd been some sort of major incident at the Embassy in Ankh-Morpork. Digging around, she picked up on the story that her father, the Ambassador, had been injured and there was some doubt as to who was covering the job while he was in hospital. One Bureau of Foreign Affairs contact had gloomily speculated that he wouldn't be surprised if your _mother_ was keeping the desk warm, Suki.

" _Ja_ , sounds like Mutti." Suki had said, cheerfully. Inside, she was scheming about how to get to Ankh-Morpork, quickly. Her bank balance couldn't afford a carpet fare. She wondered if her Editor would pay expenses.

Then, when she saw President van Baalsteuwel had cancelled his engagements for a few days, citing no reason, she decided to stake out the political zone of the city and watch the skies. She knew about the Pegasii that flew between Home and Ankh-Morpork. She'd seen them, in the aftermath of the Tobacco Farm battle where she'd reported. She'd seen for herself how quickly they could get her copy from the Tobacco Farm to the _**Times**_. After two days of frustrating wait, she had seen one spiralling down from the sky into the gardens of the Presidential Palace. The rider looked like it might be Olga Romanoff, but she was carrying a pillion passenger.

Impulsively, she ran round the perimeter fence. Luck was with her, as a side-gate was open and a black labourer was trucking out waste to a waiting refuse cart. She slipped in and tried to assess where the Pegasus would land. Forcing herself to walk with confidence and as if she had every right to be there, she tagged onto a bunch of smart suits who were awaiting the President's return. Dressed in a smart business suit herself, nobody noticed.

And then Olga was assisting the familiar old man to earth, helping him divest the cloaks he'd been wearing against the high airs.

People were edging forwards to speak to him. She bustled to the front and caught his eye. She'd only get one chance at this.

"Mr President! What can you tell readers of _**DeBurgher**_ about your recent trip to Ankh-Morpork? I understand you were in high-level discussions with Lord Vetinari concerning the criminal gang at large there? What do you know about the attack on our Embassy?"

The president scowled darkly. Suki tried to put other people between her and the large unhappy looking Guardsmen who were running towards her. Then van Baalsteuwel waved for the guards to stand back.

"I'll deal with this." he said. He stepped forward and regarded her.

"You know, any other journalist who tried something like this, I'd have them slung out on their _guava._ " he said. "Walk with me, young missie van der Graaf."

The old man smiled.

"I know you've just come back from Ankh-Morpork…" Suki began.

The old man waved her into silence.

"Correct, as it happens, but I can make sure that never gets into print." he said. "Meant to be a closely-guarded secret, so _of course_ the Press finds out. Hmmph."

He pondered the situation.

"Here's the deal." he said. "And it's the only offer you'll get. When Officer Romanoff here chooses to leave and return to Ankh-Morpork, she takes a passenger with her. You."

He smiled diffidently at Olga.

"If that's alright with you, my dear."

"Perfectly". Olga agreed. She looked amused.

"I can justify it as a humanitarian gesture. You're a young girl, just learnt her father took a crossbow bolt through his hip in a dastardly attack, your dear mother is frantic. So you are allowed an emergency exit visa to be at her side and support her, as a good daughter should. See your poor wounded father, who, when I saw him, was sitting up in bed having the time of his life, charming some _very_ pretty nurses. And Gods know, it's not hard to do a favour for Friejda when she needs one. Lovely lady, your mother. Although Gods know where it went wrong with _you_."

Suki said, dutifully, "Thank you, sir."

Then the president grinned.

"My weak point. Always been a sucker for a pretty face. Ah well. But _in return,_ young missie."

He stopped smiling.

"Whatever story you write is _sympathetic._ Makes us look as if we've not been sitting on our backsides scratching our arses while a criminal gang, of _this_ nationality, terrorises Ankh-Morpork. Put a positive spin on it. Do you hear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Now Olga's not travelling back _just_ yet. I believe there's a young man here she likes spending an afternoon with. I'm not going to get in the way of that. You might want to be here around eleven to midnight tonight? Go off and do something else. I'll inform the gate guard. You will be expected, _this_ time."

"Thank you, sir."

"A good report, miss van der Graaf. A _good_ one."

In the event, Olga did not return till three in the morning. She looked content, happy and faraway.

"Aye, weel." said her navigating Feegle, Wee Mad Arthur. "Yon Eddie's a _persuasive_ swain, aye."

Suki smiled her understanding. She'd met one or two persuasive swains herself. Some things needed no explanation. She cloaked up for the journey, listened to the pre-flight instruction, and was issued the obligatory brown paper bag in case of need. She heard, with interest, that Ankh-Morpork time would be a few hours behind apparent time here. They were leaving well after three am, but might arrive at midnight or slightly earlier in terms of local time.

And as the sun pinked the Howondalandian horizon, they took off. Olga filled her in on what was known about the situation. She listened intently. She closed her eyes against the disorientation of "Feegle Space" as they entered it.

And then they were over the vast, the intimidatingly vast, city. Olga rummaged in a pocket and brought out the omniscope fragment that served Pegasus pilots for communication with Ground Control. She reported in to a controller at Pseudopolis Yard.

"Roger that." Ground Control said. Peeking over her shoulder, Suki saw the worried face of a young Watchman in the omniscope. "Bit busy here. Big situation on."

"Anything I can assist with? Over."

There was a pause as Ground Control relayed her inquiry. Then the controlling Watchman reappeared and said:

"Howondalandian Gang reported to be in an attack at Eighteen Spa Lane, just off Nap Hill and Pallant…"

"I know where it is." Olga cut him short. She'd been a dinner guest at Johanna's. And the idea Johanna was under attack concerned her.

"Inspector Pessimal recommends you vector over there. An eye in the sky would be useful, he says."

"Eighteen Spa Lane. On the way. Over."

She looked over her shoulder at Suki.

"Looks like I got you a scoop." she said.

Suki's journalistic senses twanged.

Two more Pegasii blinked into real space again, over the hubwards-by-widdershins part of the City. Olga waved acknowledgement to her fellow pilots. Suki noted both had pillion passengers. They looked oddly familiar, but it was hard to tell… then they saw an explosion of fire at ground level erupting from the side of a house. It was spectacular and it was impressive. Olga quietly urged her mount to speed.

Then they landed. Suki had an impression of screams, fighting, of running men and women in black or in Watch armour. She heard a dry grating voice exclaim "Oh, great gods! That's the man we _want_! And that big bugger's proposing to throw him off the bloody _roof?_ "

She looked up, and saw a giant of a man who was effortlessly holding a limp and unresisting body over his head. He was talking to the man, almost affectionately. Then she recognised her cousin Johanna, looking very heavily pregnant and as if she was in some pain, limp over to talk the giant out of it. He dropped the unresisting man at his feet.

Suki watched some more, then reached for her notebook. Then by some unerring instinct, she encountered Sacharissa Cripslock. Neither woman had actually met, but Sacharissa knew the reputation of _Our Correspondent In Rimwards Howondaland_. They decided to pool their joint resources and cover the story together…

* * *

Andreas Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes accepted use of a ladder to come down off the roof. He introduced himself to Vimes and Carrot. In his heavily accented Morporkian, he asked for the location of this Lady Sybil Hospital the wonderful flying horse was taking his daughter to, as his wife would surely wish to _know_.

"Was she hurt?" Carrot asked. Barbarossa looked into the wide innocent face, then burst out laughing. He clapped Carrot on the shoulder. He rocked slightly.

"Carrot…." Angua said, doing the face-palm thing.

"Hardly, mister policeman! What hes taken her to hospital is whet should be a heppier event. Now the men who have dogged her life these pest few months are dealt with. My wife, Johanna's dear mother, will wish to know."

"Her waters broke, sir." Angua said, testily. "Which, Carrot, means the baby _is imminent_."

"And… errr…. That's your wife, sir?" Vimes inquired, diffidently.

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had disembarked, taken one look at the situation, and marched on and straight into the house. A Watchman who had tried to deter her had been given very short shrift.

"Johanna's mother, _ja._ " Barbarossa said, proudly. "When I realised we hed two of the marvellous flying horses evailable end each could take a pessenger, I left the ferm in the hends of Kurt end my sons. To be honest, I hed been thinking of visiting this place for quite some time."

Vimes nodded. The brief glimpse he'd had of Agnetha had been disconcerting. At first he had wondered if shock had aged Johanna by thirty years. Then he'd noticed no pregnancy bulge, and deduced the woman must be a relative. She'd certainly made young Constable Passmore take a few steps back…

* * *

Johanna realised this was her very first flight on a Pegasus. She wished she was in a state to appreciate it more. Contractions were coming harder and faster now. Her father had effortlessly lifted her aboard and told her to hang on tight. Irena had said for the Gods' sake to hold it in, as while she'd done the midwifery stuff as a witch, the back of a Pegasus at two hundred feet was _not_ a place to show off her skills.

And then they'd landed in the middle of the Lady Sybil. Nurses and doctors had come running. Johanna had been loaded onto a gurney and moved, with speed, to Maternity.

* * *

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had taken charge inside the house. She snapped at her _accepted-as-nephew-even-though-the-family-link-is-slightly-more-distant-than-that,_ Julian, to go and put some clothes on. He meekly replied "Yes, Aunt Agnetha.", and went upstairs to clean some of the blood off his torso and find a shirt.

Claude, the butler, instantly recognised a powerful force. As Agnetha ignored the destruction and the covered bodies, she busied herself with care of her younger daughter, loudly and insistently saying "No child of MINE goes to hospital in this state! She's filthy and covered in blood! I want her bathed and groomed first. Go find a maid to run a bath!"

" _Ja,_ baas-lady." Claude said meekly, reverting to earlier conditioning. Right now it was safest. He went upstairs to rouse the other servants, to assure them the danger was over but a greater peril had arrived. They'd better present themselves and be prepared to deal with…. He paused. If Johanna was _Madam_. And Mariella was _Young Madam._ Their mother would therefore be… He went upstairs to advise the others of the arrival of the terrible and unrelenting Old Madam.

* * *

Mariella let herself be bathed, scrubbed and groomed. The filthy nightgown was sent, by her mother, for incineration. Lying there with her bandaged leg draped over one side of the tub, with her hair being meticulously cleaned and groomed by Eve, she got over the shock of her parents' unexpected arrival, and the implications of their wanting to stay for at least a few weeks. Rivka had re-appeared, having retrieved the other throwing axe, and having alerted the Watch to the possibility that the house immediately behind 18 Spa Lane had been their base **. (1)** Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had taken a look at her, tutted disapproval, and said it appeared there was ANOTHER chimney-sweep's apprentice who needed a verdamte good scrubbing, what exactly do they TEACH you at that expensive school you both attend? Mariella felt very tired and drowsy. It was a good reason for even her mother to concede that she ought to be checked by the doctors. But she was going there CLEAN and in clean underwear, if she, Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, had anything to do with it. They'd think she wasn't a good mother otherwise, and she wasn't having THAT.

The Watch took Mariella to the Lady Sybil in a fast coach. Mariella fell asleep. She smiled at the thought of Rivka meekly submitting to being bathed and cleansed. If she was sensible, she'd give in.

* * *

"OK, just before I take formal statements." Angua said. "Ruth, don't you think it would be a good idea to go upstairs and move your things into a different room, and to at least _pretend_ to have slept in the bed? Witness statements tend to circulate, and from your point of view, it may not be a a good idea if a formal document says you and Julian were sleeping in the same room. It gets read out in court."

Angua looked at the expression of alarm on both faces. She grinned tolerantly. She didn't mind fudging _inessential_ details.

"You can say you heard noises in the night, then went to alert Captain Smith-Rhodes in the next room, or something. "Angua prompted her.

Ruth excused herself and went upstairs.

"Oh, Ruth? You might want to put a top on, or something?" Angua prompted her.

* * *

Dorothea the cook stood in the middle of the kitchen and folded her arms. She had been roused, assured it was safe to come out, and instructed to open the kitchen to deal with any demands the Old Madam was likely to make. She had found something she half-expected to see, and was in mixed mood about it.

"Listen to me, tiny wall-people." she said, to the empty air. "I will forget _this time_ that you have been in my kitchen without my leave. I will turn my back. I will expect to see ALL my knives returned to the knife-drawer. And I tell you people, I want them _clean!_ "

A procession of sheepish-looking goblins filed in, trying not to catch her eye, and every one of Dorothea's knives and cleavers was eventually returned.

She nodded thanks to them. Then set about providing hot drinks for just about everybody. Watchmen soon discovered the kitchen door and the big friendly smiling black cook. Being fair-minded men, they passed a helmet round for small coin to be dropped into by way of acknowledgement. Dorothea was soon making a nice profit, as well as hot buttered toast and light snacks.

* * *

"You're not one of _mine_!" Sam Vimes said. His gaze had fallen on the third Pegasus pilot. She was holding the head reins while Spike placidly grazed the Smith-Rhodes lawn.

"No, sir. I'm not." agreed Princess Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling of Lancre.

Vimes frowned down at her.

"You're a bit _young_ to be doing this, aren't you?" he asked. Olga Romanoff intervened.

"Work experience girl, you might say, sir." she said. " _Apprentice._ Flies with us during her school holidays."

"There's a Guild of Pegasus Pilots now?" Vimes demanded.

"Sort of, sir. Just because we've found out how to breed them, doesn't mean just _anyone_ can ride one. They're choosy about who they pick as pilots. So far only Lancre-trained witches can ride them, we've discovered."

Vimes nodded. "So you're in the club."

Nottie smiled back. "We're the only people who can work with the Feegle, sir." she explained.

"Aye, she is that, bigjob." Big Tam said from the mane. Vimes scowled. He didn't get on much with Feegles. He looked at the girl again. Not quite fourteen, unruly slightly tangled straw-blonde hair, and a nose slightly too large for her to be described as beautiful. But self-possession in bucketloads, which he recognised as a character trait in witches. _Feegle are needed as navigators_ , he reminded himself.

"She may be a wee hag, but she's a _hag_." Big Tam said. "Like her mother afore her, and like the Great Hag, the Hag o'a'' Hags, who gifted her one of her names. Names is power!"

"Margaret Esmerelda, sir." Olga said. "Margaret for her mother. Now Queen of Lancre. Esmerelda for…"

"Mistress Weatherwax." Vimes said. He gave in.

" _Nottie_ is an accident, sir. Long story." the girl said. "It sort of stuck."

Vimes sighed, then grinned. _Carrot was thinking about a Police Cadet Service. Like a training arm for people who are underage and wanting a Watch career. Show them the job, under supervision, two nights a week. Keep them off the streets…_ Vimes thought about this _…or something similar. Out of trouble, anyway. We might get a couple of good recruits out of it when the time comes._

"Looks like I might have to swear you in as a Special, young lady." he said. "Just a formality. To legitimise it. We've got everything else in the Watch, so why not a Princess?"

"Or two." Olga reminded him. "Ruth N'Kweze counts. And she's a Special."

* * *

Ruth quickly rearranged upstairs to make it look, before the Scene of Crime iconographer got up here, as if she'd been sleeping in a different room. Then she considered, changed into black britches, and wrapped Julian's disregarded Army officer's tunic around her upper half. She collected her borrowed weapons and decided to return them to the wall display. They'd served their purpose.

It was her bad luck to encounter Andreas Smith-Rhodes walking into the house. He saw a Zulu warrior in full regalia coming down the stairs. One who, like the waves of enemy assailing Lawke's Drain, had chosen to wear a trophy, in that place a uniform jacket taken from a dead man at Isandhlwana.

" _What the blue, buggering, Hell!"_ he shouted, and went for his machete.

Julian Smith-Rhodes sensed trouble and saw Ruth going into a defensive crouch with her assegai. He swiftly got between them.

"Uncle Andreas!" he said, urgently. "I know what you're thinking. But this Zulu was fighting on _our_ side. She's a friend. Well, in this time and place, anyway."

"So whose dead body did she get that jacket off, hey?" Barbarossa demanded. Julian reddened slightly.

"Actually… mine, uncle."

Barbarossa looked from one to the other. People made the mistake of thinking a man built like a troll also thought like a troll. But he made a correct deduction very quickly, then threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Tensions relaxed. Agnetha Smith-Rhodes appeared. She looked up disapprovingly at Ruth, who looked sheepish. As well as slightly deafened.

"You'd be one of the Zulu girls." she said. "At that school. Johanna mentioned you in her letters. Andreas, _put that sword down_! Come down the stairs, girl. But no threatening moves with that assegai. You hear? I'm _watching_ you!"

A little later, Ruth returned weapons and head-dress to the wall display. Barbarossa watched her.

"Your uncle, you say?" he asked. He was now inclined to be friendly, having heard a little of Ruth's association with Johanna. "I remember. Twelve or thirteen years ago. His bloody impi raided across the river. Got the van Rental farm. Johanna was _furious._ She got a few good men together and went after him. Succeeded, where a whole kommando failed. Man, I was _proud_ of her that day!"

"I hardly knew him." Ruth replied, speaking politely in Vondalaans. "Father never trusted him, though. I suspect he was pleased to see a little problem solved."

"And then they paid her off and exiled her here." Barbarossa shook his head. "She seems to have thrived on it, though."

* * *

In what was now a heavily guarded cellar room below Pseudopolis Yard, the Watch Igor and Matron Igorina worked on the nearly-dead de Koenig and the badly injured Ouistrehaam. One was unconscious and near death; the other had been heavily anaesthetised to make their work easier. Igors working in accordance with the Code of the Igors, they worked largely in silence, speaking only to request a particular tool or surgical instrument. Eventually, as a plasma solution drained into each man, to ensure blood pressure was maintained and the heart had something to pump that made up for lost blood, the two Igor shook hands, pleased in a job well done.

"The old lung was thmashed beyond repair. That young lady did a terrifyingly good job with the sthpear." the Watch Igor said. Igorina nodded.

"Lucky for him we had access to a spare, then!" she said, happily.

"And a thspare arm. For the other man." Igor agreed. "Lucky that thtevedore at the Dockth wath carrying an Igor card."

"The man who was crushed underneath a crate full of machine tools. That slipped from the crane while it was being loaded." Igorina mused. "All we could usefully salvage was a right arm, a kidney and a lung."

They looked down at Ouistrehaam together, content in the visible evidence of a job well done.

"The new arm is a match for its opposite, in terms of length, musculature and size." Igorina said, approvingly. "Which is everything that can be expected of us."

But she still took care to ensure the man was strapped down to his bed.

"Don't want him self-rejecting." she said. "Now shall we pick up our guards, and take a look at the other one's face? Jaw broken in two places, fracture of the nasal cartilage, depressed traumatic fracture of the lacrimatic, maxillal process, and the lateral sinistral zygomatic."2

Igorina sighed.

"That's going to really _hurt_ when we reset it."

"Unavoidably so." agreed Igor. "Better make sure he's strapped down."

* * *

And an hour or two later, Julian Smith-Rhodes having volunteered to mind the house, a mixed party was sitting in a private waiting room at the Lady Sybil. Every so often, screams rent the air.

Ponder Stibbons sat numbly, events of the past twelve hours racing around and yet to catch up with him. He wasn't waiting alone. There is an iron law that operates whenever a new father is anxiously waiting for news of the happy event. Where a first time father is waiting, there will be more experienced men who will gather round him to offer support and advice. If nothing else, narrative causality dictates this.

There was another scream. Ponder winced. Especially when the scream mutated into

" _Aaaargh! Ponder Stibbons, you BESTARD! AAAAArgh! After this, I swear to the Gods we are sleeping in separate beds! Aaaaaaargh!"_

Andreas Smith-Rhodes patted his son-in-law on the shoulder, reassuringly.

"I'd _like_ to say I hev got no idea es to how she knows words like thet." he said. "Or where she got them from."

"But, being a honest man…" said Peter Bellamy. Andreas grinned happily.

"Women in my family line are _robust."_ he said. "Daughters of the earth. So I suppose I cennot complain ebout earthy language. Still, my daughter hes en _impressive_ vocabulary."

" _Aaaaaaaargh! Make thet separate BEDROOMS, Ponder StibbonsAAAARGH!"_

"I shouldn't worry, old son." Peter said. "you should have heard Vinnie when she was having our first. She was threatening to slip something in my tea to kill the urge. That was a little bit worrying."

"End she did not, of course." Andreas said, politely.

"Well, then we had two more. With a third on the way in the next few weeks. So I wouldn't worry, Ponder. She needs somebody to vent at right now."

"Her mother is with her." Andreas said. "Which is _gut._ I do not much care for this new-fengled way of thinking, thet the husband should be there during the birth. Leave it for the women, is whet I say! We were all there for the conception. Ag, thet should be enough for _eny_ man!"

Ponder forced a smile. Then heavy feet approached. The door opened.

"Thanking you kindly, Matron." said a familiar voice. Then Mustrum Ridcully entered, looking anxious.

"Am I too late, lad?" he asked. Then his face spread into a wide grin.

"Barbarossa, you old _devil!_ " he roared.

"Mustrum!" bellowed Andreas, leaping up.

The two big men shook hands vigorously, in a room that suddenly seemed too small to contain both. Then Ridcully eyed the table speculatively and began rolling up a sleeve.

"Stands at one-all, as I recall." he said. "Somethin' to _do_ while we're waitin'."

Barbarossa grinned.

Then the fearsome matron was in the doorway again.

"There is to be strictly _no_ arm-wrestling in this hospital!" she announced. "We take a very dim view of destruction of hospital property!"

Ridcully and Barbarossa both sighed. The matron nodded. "Mrs Smith-Rhodes was wise to warn me." she said. "Her exact words were, tell my husband _not_ to roll his sleeves up in the waiting room. Or she will get to know about it."

With one last stern glare, she turned and left. The door closed behind her. in the near distance, Johanna was heard, in between fresh screams, likening Ponder to something very unpleasant indeed to be found on the Veldt.

"I really don't know where she gets it from." her father said, pretending innocence. "Good phrase, though. Never heard _thet_ one before."

"Don't worry, Ponder." Peter Bellamy reassured him. "She needs to shout and cuss and swear at you _now._ But when she's got the baby, it'll all be forgiven. You see."

Ridcully took his pointy hat off and unscrewed the tip. He offered the brandy flask to Barbarossa, who took it.

"The ection of a gentleman, Mustrum. Thenk you."

Ponder refused a nip. His father-in-law looked at him benevolently.

"Very wise, my boy. You do not want your child's first impression of his father being the smell of strong drink." He took another nip. "But his _grandfather,_ now. Different thing entirely."

"Anyone with her apart from her mother?" Ridcully inquired.

"Irena. The Watchwoman who got her here. Apparently Johanna insisted. She thought a Lancre-trained witch was a good insurance policy. And, er, Irena did the midwifery thing with Mrs Ogg. Er." Ponder said.

Ridcully smiled.

"Clever girl. Somebody who got her midwifing from Nanny Ogg. Sound idea. By the way, lad, learnt what you did tonight. Have to say I'm impressed. All the old classics. Magical fire, hey? Hope the ash outside yer study window has got some human in it! And the boots with the smoke curlin' up out of them. There's no magic like the old magic, for all yer high-falutin' stuff in the High Energy Magic buildin'. And it sends out a clear message. Attack a wizard in his own home, you are smoke and ashes, no mercy. _Well done, lad_!"

Peter Bellamy was listening intently. He drew their attention to the fact the screaming had stopped. And then the Matron was back. This time she smiled.

"Professor Stibbons. You have a daughter. Come this way, please?"

Ponder followed her, in a daze.

* * *

 **(1)** Carrot had grasped the point immediately and sent a foot patrol to check out Five Shallow Valley. After speaking to neighbours, Sergeant Flint had smashed the door in, and they'd discovered the Jennerson family tied up in the cellar. It still didn't get Rivka out of a bath and a good scrubbing, though.

 **(2)** Depressed fracture of the cheekbone and eye socket. A tricky one even for Igors and very painful for the recipient. It apparently takes a lot pf prodding, poking and pulling to reset the bones.


	19. Epilogues and afterwords part two

_**Nothing to it, really 19**_

 _ **Epilogues and Afterwords, part two. Very minor edit to address a few typos and inconsistencies.  
**_

 _ **In which the author finally gets to the natural end. For now. …**_

Vimes shook hands with the man he was starting to think of as a Howondalandian Willikins. Claude accepted the thanks modestly.

"In my country, the police would have arrested _me_ for daring to shoot at white men." he said, with dry humour. "The fact the white men were attacking my employers' home with every intent to kill them _may_ have been taken, later, as mitigating circumstances."

"Bugger _that_!" Vimes snorted. "All I know is, my man Willikins said you had hidden depths. I hear he put you on the informal syllabus for butlers whose employers lead _more interesting_ lives?"

"And I thank him, sir." Claude said, smoothly. "He did discern, almost straight away, that I once had Sergeant's rank in the Army. Although only over black soldiers."

"Yes. Willikins would have seen that straight away. Don't worry about any comeback from your people. I'd imagine Mr van der Graaf has the clout to squash any charges. He should be thankful to you, in fact. I'll make sure he _is_ , next time I see him!"

"Thank you, your grace." Claude said. "Now I must be ready to attend to the Old Madam. I understand she and her husband will be in residence for some time."

" _The Old_... oh. _Mrs Smith-Rhodes_?"

Claude nodded, resignedly.

"I won't get in your way, then."

Scene of Crime iconographs had been taken. The bodies, whole and partial, had been loaded into a mortuary wagon. Wounded prisoners trucked off under guard to be confined in makeshift hospital cells under Pseudopolis Yard. The others sent straight to regular cells under heavy guard. The process of getting statements and if possible full confessions out of them was just beginning. Watchmen with good night vision had been detailed to scour the garden for lumps of poisoned meat. Ruth N'Kweze had reported skidding on something unwholesome that had turned out to be a lump of two-day old steak. At first puzzled as to what it was and why it was there, she'd realised, when Matron Igorina had asked if any poisoned meat had been found in the garden, as she wanted to confirm her suspicion as to what had happened to the dogs.

Another Watch guard was to be set over the shattered front door.

With nothing else to do here, Vimes, Carrot and Angua were wrapping up their direct involvement here. They'd take over the business of trying to get statements out of the captured men. Some would break quickly, others would be more hardened cases.

"I understand The Old Madam has a lot to occupy herself with inside?" Vimes said, sympathetically. Claude nodded. His expression said that it was going to be a long night.

"The last time I saw her, she was supervising a bath and fresh clothing for the other young lady." He said. "To escape from an untenable upstairs room where the door was being bashed down, they came to the living room via the chimney flues. Both ladies, as you saw, became, inescapably, very grimy indeed."

Vimes nodded. Inwardly he appreciated the ingenuity involved, and wondered if the chimney flues at Ramkin Manor were Assassin-proof. Some clever bugger was bound to try, sooner or later. It was only a specialised form of indoor edificeering, after all. He'd raise it with Willikins.

"Miss bin-Divorah attempted to raise protest." Claude continued. "But the Old Madam said she was going to get a mother's care and attention, from _somebody's_ mother, whether she liked it or not. I understand she conceded the point, and went meekly."

Vimes grinned, then looked up.

A determined dark shape was climbing down the outside of the building.

He sighed, and quietly moved to a point almost directly underneath.

As Rivka dropped to the ground, she saw Claude and three senior Watchmen.

"I recommend that the young lady should be in her bed at this hour." Claude said. "As the Old Madam no doubt instructed you."

Vimes shook his head. "I thought you people were getting the point about pure black." he said. "Starting to officially experiment with camouflage. But then, you're still only a student. You should know, miss, pure black stands out a mile at night. Because nothing in nature is ever that deep and that absolutely black."

Rivka considered these points.

"And I smelt soap, shampoo and bath salts." Angua added. "Strong smells _carry_."

"I know. I should be in bed. I was told to go to bed." Rivka said. "By Johanna's mother, who I know is acting as head of this household. So she has the right. But I was hoping to get to the Lady Sybil. To see my friend Mariella. To assure myself she is alright."

"And you'd have come straight back here again, hoping your absence had not been noted?" Vimes said. Rivka nodded.

"And you'd have walked across the city on your own? At _this_ time of night?" Angua inquired.

Rivka nodded again.

Vimes sighed. He considered the likely misadventures of a thirteen-year-old girl crossing the city on her own by night. One who earlier in the evening had lopped a bad guy's arm off with a throwing axe. He decided to do the best thing possible, with an eye on public safety.

"I've got a coach waiting to take us back to the Yard. And I suspect if I make you go back to your room you'd only wait till we're gone, and then slip out again. We can always detour to the Lady Sybil. If that's alright, Claude?"

"I can so advise the Old Madam if it comes to that." Claude said. "To explain the young lady has been asked to assist the Watch with their enquiries, is safe in their keeping, and will be returned to us."

Vimes made a resigned sigh.

"Get in the coach, young lady. You can escort us."

* * *

Davinia Bellamy sighed and sought to call her own family to order. Martin and Tim had been out in the street with Peggy, watching the action from a distance. Simon, her oldest son, who was not an Assassin and who was working for Master Builder certification, complained that a man should be able to get his head down at night, ahead of his one day off out of eight and a chance to sleep in late. But the others were too excited to sleep.

Tim was full of the thrilling fight and the screams and the violence, and regretted the fact that their Assassin escort had politely but firmly kept the three students out of the fight.

"'Riella and that Scary Mary best friend of hers must have been right in the middle of it." he complained. "Some people get all the luck!"

Davinia noted the familiar diminutive and filed it away for possible reference later. She also reflected a _Scary Mary_ was slang, among male pupils, for a female contemporary who was considered more temperamental, moody, _arsy_ and _badass_ than the usual run. A girl not to annoy and to be treated with respect.

"Yes, but that's typical of Darners, Scraggies and Crows, isn't it?" Martin remarked. Davinia knew her student slang. _Scraggies_ and _Crows_ were girls from Raven House. _Darners_ were girls from Black Widow House. Apparently because they weren't old enough to be proper Seamstresses yet, but they tried hard. She winced slightly.

"Doctor Smith-Rhodes teaches them to be hard as nails. Beaks and talons. _Crows._ Always go for the eyeballs. And your _other_ …"

"Martin!" she said, warningly.

Simon, an older brother excluded from the school in-talk of his two siblings, scowled slightly.

"I'm off to bed. _Again_. Nothing you need, mum?"

She smiled at him. Her own advanced pregnancy had brought out a better side in the boys. Simon kissed her on the cheek and patted her belly. She suffered this from her unborn child's siblings.

"Goodnight, mum. Goodnight, baby brother!"

"Or sister." his mother reminded him. _Really. Just because the first three were all boys. They assume so._

Peter had rushed off to the hospital to "be supportive to Ponder". Davinia accepted this. She knew Johanna would have people around her, and the fact her parents had unexpectedly dropped in was a bonus. She had not seen the inside of Number Eighteen, and wondered if all the mess had been cleared up before they had gone in. All the bodies and things. Then she reflected that her neighbour's parents had probably seen _much worse_ at home, up to and including invasions from the Zulu Empire next door. Johanna had talked about it sometimes. Ah well. It was best she had family with her. But she itched for Peter to come back with news.

In the background, Martin was discussing the wizard-fire that had probably scared the sh… _wits_ … out of the Cordingly family at Number Sixteen. A family already uneasy about having an Assassin neighbour on each side, at Eighteen and Fourteen. Who had witnessed a gout of flames that had blasted down the dividing hedge, charred the side wall, and blown out all their windows. She sighed. She was sure there'd be a _"For Sale"_ sign outside Number Sixteen soon. And the Cordinglys had been good, albeit _nervous_ , neighbours. _Maybe I should offer to replant the hedge,_ she thought. _I heard they dropped plank bridges to trample down the guard plants. Good point. I think Hergenian Ironthorn, this time. Not even_ _ **a troll**_ _can knock that down, and you need the best Dwarf technology to prune the blighter._

* * *

The Assassin Piers Verlinden and his team had returned, with the Comptesse de Lapoignard, to the Guild, to file their reports. Lord Downey expressed delight and satisfaction that the four criminals had all been brought in more-or-less alive. And in two of the four cases, clearly and unquestionably by fully licenced Assassins. A minor victory over Vimes, who had accepted custody of the prisoners following their initial detention.

He heard Emmanuelle's dry report of how she and Davinia had brought down Benckel. She promised that she would fill in the necessary Claims Form to receive payment for them both. Emmanuelle and Verlinden confirmed that Johanna, with some outside assistance, had brought down the ringleader.

"We can take the point of view that a public-spirited outsider assisted her in the detention." Downey said. "Who, alas, not being a Guild member himself, is ineligible to receive the bounty. As he was clearly operating under her instructions, however, we can take the view that Doctor Smith-Rhodes justly earned the fifteen thousand dollar bounty on the head of du Plessis."

Verlinden and Emmanuelle indicated their assent.

"In the circumstances, we can accept she has other things to occupy her mind at present than the completion of routine paperwork. Is there any news? Never mind, for the present."

Lady T'Malia, stately and dressing-gowned, had joined Downey, eager to be in at the end of a long tricky contract.

"You know, Donald." she said, thoughtfully. "Some months ago when all we had to worry about were three pregnant teachers, I expressed a suspicion that Doctor Smith-Rhodes would attempt a contract in a state of advanced pregnancy, purely to make some sort of stubborn bloody-minded point. Now we discover she has not only done so, she has succeeded. And she completed the contract whilst experiencing the onset of labour pains. This dedication to success _must_ merit a plaque in the Dark Library. And may I say – given that Doctor Bellamy and the Comptesse de Lapoignard _also_ succeeded in a joint contract completion, despite their both being over eight months pregnant – that I am not in the slightest little bit surprised?"

Downey smiled. It was a happy and a relieved smile. He went to the drinks cabinet, selected the bottle marked YRREHS, and counted five glasses.

"Let us celebrate our success." he said. "Then we can debate how to deal with the _other_ two cases, which present a certain administrative problem."

* * *

Downey remembered to send Verlinden back to 18 Spa Lane with a courtesy coach and instructions to put it at the disposal of Johanna's parents, together with an invitation for them to visit him at the School, where he wished to make personal apology for the attack on Mariella.

Agnetha accepted with thanks, and requested to be with her daughters at the hospital, telling Claude she and her husband would return later.

"As you wish, Madam." he said, taking care to omit the "Old".

Julian Smith-Rhodes volunteered to look after the house in her absence. Aunt Agnetha fixed him with her steeliest eye.

"See you do, Julian." She said. "End _whetever_ Johanna permits under this roof, end I shell speak to her ebout this, there is to be no scendel with thet Zulu girl, do you hear me? Take that _somewhere else_!"

"Yes, Aunt Agnetha." Julian said, meekly.

As the coach drew away, houseguests and servants alike shared a collective exhalation of relief.

"Any wine available, Claude?" Julian asked. "It's been a tough day."

And then it got tougher.

An attractive girl with red-blonde hair walked in toting an overnight bag.

"Hi, Julian." she said. "Has Aunt Agnetha gone? Good. Look, when Johanna wrote to me to say they'd bought this house, she said if I was ever in town, I could stay. And if I asked Mutti and Vatti for a bed at the Embassy, that sort of curtails my freedom of movement, you know? BOSS on site, is it still that awful little prick Verkramp? With a legal right to censor my copy. I don't want that. I'll see Mutti in the morning. Got to go, Sacharissa and William want to see me to discuss copy, cab waiting outside, I'll just drop my stuff in a spare bedroom. Hi Ruth, nice to see you again!"

"Suki." Julian said to her retreating back. "How _very_ nice to see _you_ again. I'm sure your parents will be _delighted_ you're here."

"A family reunion is always very nice, isn't it, sir?" Claude said, offering a bottle for inspection.

Julian studied his face for signs of butlerian sarcasm. Nothing was apparent. He sighed. It wasn't only white Howandalandians who went native in this city.

* * *

Johanna and her newborn daughter were moved to a small private room. There were two beds in it and a cot. A mixed group of relatives and friends followed.

Doctor Mossy Lawn attended personally.

"In the circumstances, given the child is possibly three weeks premature, and given the incredible stress on the mother in her unique circumstances, I think it's prudent to keep you both here for perhaps a week." he said. "Nothing to worry about. I'm pleased to say mother and baby are in excellent health, and babies are routinely born at an estimated eight months who grow and thrive. Not thought of a name yet? I'm sure you'll get round to it."

He nodded at a nurse. She said "You may come in now."

Mariella limped in, supported by her friend Rivka bin-Divorah.

"Couldn't separate them." Mossy said, drily. "Thought it best to keep this one in for overnight observation. Concussion, and all that. Although her nurses report she should be fine by tomorrow and ready for discharge. Anyway, you two sisters share a room tonight. Good for both of you."

"I thought I hed told you to _go to bed_ , child." Agnetha Smith-Rhodes said, irritated.

"Yes, you did." Rivka said, holding her head low in submission. "I disobeyed you."

Andreas Smith-Rhodes looked consternated for a moment, then threw back his head and bellowed with laughter. He opened his mouth, but his wife glared at him. He closed his mouth.

"Well, you're here. And a friend to my daughters. Welcome." Agnetha said. "Now this business of a _name_ for my grand-daughter!"

She was holding the child and not Johanna, Mariella realised, as she swung her legs into the welcoming bed. As if, when she finally passed the baby back to her mother, she would do it in such a way as to imply the child was only on conditional loan. And Ponder just looked stunned and bemused.

"Got to go soon, old lad." Peter Bellamy said. "I've got most of the essentials. To tell Vinnie. Daughter, seven pounds two, in incredibly good health, looks like she'll have red hair like her mum, mother and child doing just fine, grandparents and sister in attendance."

"You will stay for the naming." Agnetha said, firmly. "I eppreciate your wife is a friend of Johanna's. She will wish to know the child's name."

The hardened prison officer meekly sat down again.

"I wish her to be a Monika." Johanna said.

"Hmm. Possible. As _one_ of her names." her mother conceded.

" _Anomia_ sounds appropriate." Mustrum Ridcully said, with a look of studied innocence. Johanna stifled a giggle. She knew it was Ephebian for "The Un-Named One".

Her mother considered this.

" _Nie_." She said. "Too much like " _Emmonia_ "."

"End you hev to beware of giving a child a name other children will make mockery of." Andreas proclaimed. "She will not forgive you if you do."

Other names were tentatively suggested and ruled out. Ponder knew to keep quiet. He sensed mere male opinion would not carry weight here. _And to be honest, I have no idea. Just having a daughter is big enough._

The conversation faltered as ideas, such as the names of the nurses and midwives in attendance, were considered and ruled out. The official midwife had been called Declensia, for instance.

" _Irena_ , for the very capable pilot who brought her here." Andreas suggested. Irena Politek reddened slightly at the compliment.

"Monika Irena." Johanna said. "I like thet." She noticed her mother was considering this. It was a good sign that she wasn't ruling it out.

"Something still missing, I think." Agnetha said. Then she smiled in devotion to her new grandchild.

"Perheps Mariella end her young friend hev ideas?" Andreas suggested. "They've been quiet over there. End I em told Mariella is good with words."

Mariella considered. Then she said "Rivka? You were telling me about your names. _Divorah_ comes into Morporkian es _Deborah_ …"

"No." Johanna said firmly, thinking of a pupil called Deborah Rust. " _Ebsolutely_ not." Then she added "Not because of you, Rivka. There wes _enother_ pupil. One I would _not_ admit into my home, nor invite to be on first-name terms with me."

Rivka looked shy and diffident for a moment.

"I believe Mariella was thinking of the name _Rivka_." she said. "It also changes on translation into Morporkian. It becomes _Rebecca_. After a woman honoured in the history of my people."

Johanna smiled.

" _Rebecka."_ She said. "Bekki Monika Irena Smith-Rhodes."

" _Nie."_ The child's grandmother said, firmly. "Rebecka Monica Irena _Stibbons_."

She passed baby Bekki back to her mother, the naming having been made. The choice of name was universally acclaimed.

* * *

In the next few days, a lot happened. Friejda van der Graaf descended on 18 Spa Lane, partly to berate her own eldest daughter on not having called in at the Embassy to say she was in town, partly to express shock at the mess and to be properly appalled, and partly to catch up with her husband's sister Agnetha. Agnetha Smith-Rhodes was settling into her new temporary role as head of her daughter's household, and had even mellowed in some small ways once the initial drama and worry for her daughters had faded.

The household servants were being worked hard, and were counting the days until the Old Madam must hand over the reins again to Madam, when she returned with her child. Cyprian and Simeon were kept active with sweeping up rubble and debris and trucking it to a skip in the driveway. Old Madam and Baas-Lady Friejda kept a dedicated eye out against their slacking. The noise of the house-goblins assembling a new clacks tower drifted down from above.

As Friejda and Agnetha took advantage of Johanna's absence to plan _exactly_ how the house should be recarpeted and redecorated after necessary building work, Andreas had been put to work ripping up the old blood and battle-stained carpets from floors and stairs.

Dorothea the cook petitioned for a complete brand-new set of kitchen knives, pointing out it didn't seem right to be preparing food with knives the goblins had used for… _well, you know, baas-lady._ Agnetha accepted the point, and instructed her to get a brand-new set of everything.

Builders were making a start, at Ponder's insistence repainting the outside wall and rebuilding the windows at Number Sixteen, which had been ravaged by magical fire. Gloomily, he still noticed a "For Sale" sign had appeared outside their neighbours.

Julian Smith-Rhodes dropped by from time to time, when Embassy duties allowed, dealing with suppliers and tradesmen and, Ponder noticed, paying large amounts of ready cash for fast work well done.

"Family, Ponder." he said, reassuringly. "My father gave me full access to the bank account here. He won't complain about it being spent _on_ the family and he won't miss a few thousand. We've been exchanging letters through the Pegasus link, and he wants to be kept informed. He's been told what happened here, and he agrees Johanna and Bekki should come home to a completely restored house. So while there's no way of stopping Lady Friejda and Aunt Agnetha making the decisions, at least I can see it's all paid for."

He smiled tolerantly at Ponder Stibbons.

"Look, you married into this Family." Julian said. "This is how this Family does things. It's not _all_ bad news."

An upstairs room was being set up as a nursery. An adjoining bedroom was being made ready for a nanny. Ponder sighed, wondering what sort of a girl they'd get. The daughter of a Wizard and an Assassin could go a _lot_ of interesting ways. It was the sort of nannying case that Susan Sto Helit might take an interest in, for instance. Or somebody _like_ her. He knew Susan had been approached, to see if she knew of anyone she might consider suitable. Retaining Susan herself was probably too much to hope for. Ponder, who had met Susan Sto Helit, thought this was probably for the best.

* * *

Mariella and Rivka returned to the School. Still limping slightly on her Igor-healing leg, Mariella was surprised to be acclaimed as a heroine and felt warmed by the emotional response from people who'd genuinely believed her to be dead.

Being Sent Up to the master's office was a surprise. Even though Johanna had said, that night in the hospital after everyone else had gone and it was just the two… _the three_ of them, that her sister should pretend to appreciate the taste of sherry. _"Too damned sweet for me.",_ her sister had said, mysteriously.

Her parents had been there, as had a couple of obvious Circle Sea looking people who were introduced as Rivka's parents, in the City for her soon-to-happen rites of adulthood ceremony.

Lord Downey had offered fulsome handshakes and a small glass of a sharp sweet wine, which Rivka had formally likened to the _yayin kasher_ consumed on the Sabbath. Both girls politely refused the almond slice.

"You know, it isn't exactly unknown for School students to succeed in a contract." Downey said. "I have been in discussion with members of the Dark Council, and they are in full agreement that the sole form of contract which is absolutely forbidden to a student involves _inhumation._ Without a Guild licence, that becomes, I am afraid, common murder, and presents legal implications."

He smiled, genially.

"But this is not an issue here. Even if you had _killed_ the client named de Koenig, Miss Smith-Rhodes, a legitimate claim of self-defence against a man intent on murdering you would have applied. No reasonable court would have denied that. Happily, for this purpose, I can tell you that he survived and is out of danger from his injuries. He is in very secure Watch custody as we speak."

Mariella looked over at her parents. Her mother looked uncomfortable; her father was beaming with pride.

"A Guild contract existed on this man. It stated that were he to be captured alive, the Guild member responsible for his detention would receive an untaxed bounty of fifteen thousand dollars. In the unanimous opinion of the Dark Council, Miss Smith-Rhodes, your actions detained this man. You have just succeeded in your first Guild contract. Very well done to you!"

Mariella felt stunned. She really hadn't considered this. She was simply glad to be here and alive after two close brushes with death.

"And after consultation with your older sister, and today with your parents, the Guild accepts it was at fault for the attack on your person at the sports fields. We are therefore paying an additional three and a half thousand dollars in compensation for the injury to your leg and for the distress this caused. Please also accept my personal apologies."

He turned to Rivka.

"Miss bin-Divorah, initially we assumed Miss Ruth N'Kweze had succeeded in the contract to bring in, alive, the criminal called Ouistrehaam. But Miss N'Kweze made it absolutely clear in her report that she happened on the scene to discover the client was wounded and in no fit state to offer further resistance. You were standing over him with a throwing axe in your hand. Miss N'Kweze also testifies that you threw a second weapon, accurately, by night, and over some forty yards, with enough force to severely wound him and shock him into surrender. She witnessed this. Her part was limited to offering necessary field medicine to keep him alive. She firmly believes you won this contract and satisfied its requirements. The Dark Council agrees. You are now fifteen thousand dollars better off. Please accept my congratulations."

Downey's glance round the room took in both sets of parents.

"The School will be informed in the usual manner." he said. "But this begs the question of how and to whom we pay the money. Both of you are a long way away from graduating as Licenced Assassins. You are also quite a few years away from attaining the accepted age of majority of eighteen years. I have spoken to your parents, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Your father is firmly of the opinion that as your de facto next of kin in this city, your sister, Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, should receive the sum of eighteen and a half thousand dollars, to be held in trust for you. It will become yours, no doubt with interest, when you turn eighteen or graduate as a Licenced Assassin, whichever is the sooner.

"Miss bin-Divorah, I understand you are soon to undertake a religious rite of passage accepting you as a full member of your religion? Forgive me if I oversimplify. I understand an accepted part of the informal celebration is that the guest of honour might receive gifts of cash, bonds, and so forth, to be held in trust for when it is needed in their future. In which case, your parents receive the sum of fifteen thousand dollars as part of that trust fund, with our blessing. And well done to you!"

" _Gevalt!"_ Rivka exclaimed afterwards. "He tells us we're both thousands of dollars richer and then we don't see a _penny_ of it, he gives it to my parents and to your sister to administer for us!"

Mariella shrugged.

"Whet can you do?" she asked. "Et least Johanna is good with money. When I finally get it, I'm sure there'll be thousands more."

"Not much use now." Rivka said. "And you know what the worst of it is? _Our mothers have met each other. And they're on first-name terms!"_

She did a theatrical impression of a Cenotine mother.

" _Oi vay!_ I tell you, Agnetha, you raise daughters, you raise sorrows!"

Mariella considered. And answered

" _Ag_ , so true, Divorah! So true! _End she never writes beck_! I hev to chase her for seven thousand miles ecross two continents, just to get her to ecknowledge I exist!"

They laughed together and walked on.

* * *

Three pilots from the Pegasus Service stood in front of the desk in the Oblong Office. Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers and regarded them, without speaking.

Irena and Olga stood to attention either side of Nottie, who was regarding Vetinari back with frank interest. She seemed unintimidated by her surroundings. Olga wondered if this was superb self-assurance or simple naivety. Then Vetinari spoke.

"We have to allow you a little latitude and local discretion in your decision-making." he said. "You are operating far from home and your situation calls for a degree of mature self-reliance. I applaud your strength of judgement on acceding to President van Baalsteuwel's request to be brought here with all due speed. This enabled us to facilitate some important high-level business, as well as cementing the regard we have for each other. I thank you."

He paused. Drumknott helpfully passed him the morning edition of the _**Times.**_ All three could read the headline **HOWONDALANDIAN TERROR GANG CAUGHT!** And even the smaller type underneath proclaiming **TERROR IN SUBURBAN SPA LANE!** _ **By Sacharissa Cripslock, and Our Special Correspondent From Rimwards Howondaland.**_

"One of those days when there are not enough pages in the newspaper, it seems." he remarked. "And I'm interested as to exactly how _Our Special Correspondent From Rimwards Howondaland_ managed to find her way to Ankh-Morpork so quickly, and in such a timely manner."

"She, er, hitched a lift, sir." Olga offered.

"Indeed." Vetinari said. "Indeed. As did a mature farming couple from Piemburg in the Transvaal. Seven thousand miles away."

"Humanitarian gesture, sir?" Irena offered. "After all, their oldest daughter _was_ just about to go into labour with her first child."

"Ah yes. Thank you for reminding me." Vetinari said, genially. "Drumknott, please prepare a suitable token of acknowledgment of the birth of…" he consulted a note, "Rebecka Monika Irena Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, from me. "Nothing too grand, but something which serves to remind the proud mother that her daughter is by birth a full citizen of Ankh-Morpork. With all the rights and obligations that confers. Thank you."

He turned to the pilots again.

"Named, at least one-third in part, after the policewoman who got her to the hospital at full speed, with all sirens no doubt sounding, in the fastest conveyance the Watch has at its disposal." the Patrician said, genially. For some reason, this sounded completely appropriate and _right._

"A policewoman who is also a Lancre-trained witch." he added.

"Sir." Irena said. It felt safest.

Vetinari invited clarification with his silence. Irena gave in.

"Johanna thought if there was a danger her daughter might have magic, and we can't rule that out, then the baby should be named for a witch she _likes_ and gets on with." Irena added. "Luck of the draw, really. She might have been called Olga."

"Or perhaps Esmerelda Margaret Note Spelling." Vetinari remarked, taking in the third and youngest witch. He raised a clacks flimsy.

"I'm not going to ask if your parents know what you're getting up to." he said. "This is from your father, who's just read about the incident at Spa Lane. Not unreasonably, he is asking if yours was one of the Pegasii in attendance, and he is looking for confirmation that you are safe."

Vetinari looked dissaprovingly at the witches.

"Lancre is one of our closest allies." He said. "A friendly state which sells us a goodly deal of coal, pig-iron and other metal ores. Our Pegasii are bred there. Slowly and surely we are building an unparalleled flying force. I would appreciate it if King Verence _remained_ a friend. Taking his oldest child, the heiress to the throne, on potentially hazardous missions, might be seen as foolhardy."

"She _is_ an apprentice flyer, sir." Irena said.

"Work experience, sir?" Nottie asked, hopefully. "It's a lot more interesting than following in Father's footsteps. Or capers."

Vetinari made a sympathetic noise.

"I realise your father's time at a school in this City profoundly affected him and did much to shape the man he now is." he said. "I also note your mother's threats to send your younger brothers to the Fools' Guild School appear to be most efficacious in enforcing domestic discipline in your family. After all, Doctor Whiteface is eager for a son of Verence to be educated there. A place will always be held open."

Nottie smiled a contented smile.

"Nevertheless, I would prefer it if your missions for the Pegasus Service are, for the moment, small, short and routine ones." He said. "Preferably under tutelage, as any apprentice should be."

"Yes, sir." Nottie agreed, humbly.

"And I may give thought to granting licence for a Guild of Pegasus Pilots and Navigators. In due time."

He smiled, genially.

"Fortunately for you, bringing Andreas Smith-Rhodes to the city, at nil cost, where his expenses will be paid by his family, can be justified by his needing to present himself as a material witness at the trial of one Preet du Plessis." Vetinari said. "As Mr Smith-Rhodes will need to be here for at least two months, it is right that he should not be inconvenienced by enforced separation from his good lady wife. I understand she raised objections to the idea of Arch-Chancellor Ridcully taking him on a tour of some of this city's finest drinking establishments and hostelries."

Vetinari smiled gnomically.

"And Mrs Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, I understand, is occupying herself during her stay by assisting her daughter Johanna, now a new mother, with the demands of running a household and restoring the premises to pristine condition, after some unfortunate damage sustained during a criminal intrusion. I'm sure mother and daughter both appreciate a chance to catch up with each other after long separation. Capital!"

Vetinari smiled again.

"Officer Romanoff, I require you to deliver correspondence to Rimwards Howondaland. How soon can you leave? And please refrain from bringing passengers back, unless the situation clearly merits it. Thank you."

Olga acknowledged her new mission. The three were dismissed.

Vetinari added a postscript as they turned for the door.

"I might become officially unaware, however, if at any point a wizard called Edouard de Kockamaainje returns with you. I consider I do not need to be informed, should that happen."

Olga reddened slightly. She decided not to mention the request from Heidi van Kruger, to, er, bring Danie Smith-Rhodes over sometime. you know. Put him up at his sister's. Show him round. I could broaden his horizons, or something. She wondered about Johanna's reaction to that.

* * *

 _Well done, Havelock! Heartiest congratulations to your Watch. Please drop a hint to miss Suki van der Graaf that I'm reading everything she submits. What preparations are needed for the trial?_

 _L vB._

* * *

 _Louis._

 _It is important the trial be seen to be fair and holds out at least a fleeting glimpse of mercy, or even a "not guilty" verdict. My chosen prosecution counsel will of course be Mr Slant, of Slant, Morecombe and Honeyplace. Each defendant will have his own defending attorney. Mr Slant has suggested these be recently graduated lawyers who require practical experience of defending hopelessly lost cases with style and flair, perhaps being seen to wring some small grudging mercy from the court on behalf of their client. If you could despatch capable lawyers from your nation to advise Mr Slant on the finer points of Rimwards Howondalandian law, this would be advantageous. Having Miss van der Graaf in residence as a court reporter, to cover the trial for the benefit of readers at home, also has clear advantages. Her latest copy is appended for your approval prior to local publication. I'm sure sub-editors from the Bureau of State Security will be kept gainfully busy._

 _Best regards_

 _Havelock._

* * *

The mews garage at Eighteen Spa Lane was usually empty. It had stabling for two horses and ample space for a parked coach. Today it was being used as a handy depository for sheeted furniture temporarily removed from the damaged rooms, and for builders' supplies temporarily lodged in a safe dry place. Various hands had stacked furniture and sacks of plaster and cement to create a hidden guarded nook in one of the stables, where there were four or five chairs. And the beer crates Mustrum Ridcully had bribed a builder to smuggle in for them, under cover of a delivery.

"Hev you not considered buying a coach?" Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes asked Ponder. "Or et least good horses. Johanna loves to ride. Your daughter should learn. End learn _young._ "

"She has full access to the Guild stables at Garstairs, sir." Ponder said. A short walk from here. She and Mariella often go there at the weekends. And I'm sure when Bekki's old enough, we can manage a pony."

"You _do_ know Friejda and my sister are plenning to have an ennex flet built on top of this flet roof?" Pieter van der Graaf said. "They consider it a shocking waste of good space. Their grend plen is thet when you get a coach, there will be edditional room here for the ostler end the driver you will need to employ to maintain the bleddy thing."

Pieter had been discharged from hospital. He had left preparations for the Trial of the Century of the Anchovy to the embassy's Legal Attaché and his team, and had sloped off, with a light escort, for a covert and deniable drink at Ponder's. His light escort, Captain Julian Smith-Rhodes, opened a bottle of beer for himself. Julian's duties had diminished since Colonel Breytenbach had returned.

Ponder winced, calculating the additional costs of more staff. And a new coach. Pieter patted his arm consolingly.

"I find it is best to let the ladies get on with things." he said. "Diplomacy teaches thet when there are no other options, you selvege whet you cen, end you make the best of things."

"I'll drink to that!" Mustrum Ridcully said. "You know I never married, lad. But I saw me brother Hughnon. A wife is a great asset to yer working priest. But by the Gods, when he got his first Bishop's Palace, it took _thirty seconds_ for her to start gettin' it redecorated to her taste. Women are _buggers_ for that sort of thing!"

"Well, the family's paying." Julian said. "Father said he won't quibble too much. It's expected. One of the good things about being a Smith-Rhodes."

"Bloody good." Barbarossa said. "Cousin Charles being completely helpful, for once in his life." He took a deep appreciative draught. "Gods, Mustrum, this is good beer!"

"And Johanna's bringing Bekki here on…?" Julian prompted.

"Friday." Ponder said. "Three days. I've got to admit, the builders are really getting on with things!"

"Ag, Agnetha end Friejda are wetching them." Barbarossa said. "End when they're not being negged into working, the boy Julian's offering them good bonuses out of his father's ill-gotten essets. _Their_ whips, end _your_ cerrots. The Smith-Rhodes femily wey!"

"We do what works." Julian said. The others nodded assent. "And Father took full advantage of the Pegasus links and up-to-date information to make a killing on the stock market here. I'll say he can afford this."

"End crucially, gentlemen, they ere not wetching _us_." Pieter remarked. "I sometimes wonder thet BOSS does not recruit more men's wives. Then we really _would_ be a police state!"

* * *

And in the garden, Davinia Bellamy was supervising a botany and horticulture class she'd brought over from the Guild School. They were replanting the border fences with new shrubbery, principally the Hergenian Ironthorn. Her pupils were getting a grounding in Defensive Gardening and learning what the rich bounty of Nature's flora could offer in the way of very safe protection from intruders. It was good training for young Assassins. After all, they might have to get into such a garden one day. Davinia welcomed their constructive criticism as to how such defences might be neutralised. It served to make things stronger and better.

They stopped as the bones of a human arm were discovered, picked clean of meat, Davinia supposed from the Astoria Trailing Creeper growing at ground level. She directed her students to bury it deep, as bonemeal added to healthy soil. Knowing what had happened here, and wholly unsurprised, the students did as directed.

"I don't want the dogs finding that and dragging it into the house." she explained.

Davinia felt her stomach. _It's imminent. Could be any time now. Ah well. Got to keep going till the time arrives._

* * *

And in a cell at Pseudopolis Yard, the criminal called Ouistrehaam looked disbelievingly down at his new arm and screamed with shock and horror. He might have been consoled by the thought Davinia had seen his old arm interred with minimal ceremony underneath a Hergenian Ironwood. But while it worked, while it was well muscled, while it was a right arm on his right side, and it responded fully to his control, and it even had an interesting tattoo, he still looked with horror as the muscles rippled impressively underneath a dark brown-black skin.

Igors were scrupulous about their grafts and transplants. As the Watch Igor had said, dispassionately, we gave you a new arm. It _works_. We replaced like for like. I'm sorry you don't like the colour, but that's none of our concern. Our work here is _done._

And de Koenig had not yet asked which race his new lung had formerly belonged to. He'd taken it as axiomatic that only parts from a white man should go into another white man. Igor smiled a happy smile. Igors did not discriminate. A patient required a left lung. He, Igor, had a lung on ice. he had brought the two together, as the Code of the Igors dictated. He felt that de Koenig should be made fully aware. You know. In the interests of full disclosure to his patient. This, he thought, was going to be an entertaining day.

* * *

And without any fuss, Emmanuelle, Comptesse de Lapoignard, knew her time had come. She took a cab to the Lady Sybil and made herself walk unsteadily to the reception desk.

"Fill in the forms, please." said the medical receptionist, Miss Bromine Maccalariat. She saw it as part of her job to deter malingerers, hypochondriacs and time-wasters from getting anywhere near a doctor.

Emmanuelle took the proferred pen and wrote, in big clear letters,

I AM NEARLY NINE MONTHS PREGNANT AND MY WATERS HAVE JUST BROKEN!

across the page.

Miss Maccalariat blinked down and did a double-take.

"Madam, this is unsatisfactory. We still require you to fill in your name, date of birth and other personal details." she said.

"Name of a name! Do you expect me to produce my child standing up at this desk, and for you to book me in for an ante-natal appointment three weeks hence?" Emmanuelle screamed. Two nurses and a junior doctor ran to the scream.

"Come this way, please." A nurse said. "We'll take it from here, Miss Maccalariat. We can fill in the forms later!"

Some time later, a son was born. A midwife and several nurses learnt a lot of demotic Quirmian during the process.

Emmanuelle looked down at the heir to the Lapoignard estates, feeling something not unlike to a maternal instinct. She made plans to hand him over to a nurse as soon as could be arranged.

 _But perhaps not yet,_ she thought, holding her son.

"Congratulations, Countess." said Mossy Lawn. "I'm moving you to a shared smaller room, by the way. One other new mother. Is there a name yet?"

Emmanuelle focused and remembered. _Maurice_ could wait for a sibling. She recalled a time….

"Emmanuel-Martin." she said. It had been the name she'd used all those years ago when posing as a boy at the Guild school. **(** 1 **)** It felt fitting.

Mossy nodded and made a note on her clipboard. Then there was a long slow glide as her bed was pushed around endless wide corridors.

But she recognised her room-mate.

"You too!" Johanna said. "Emmie, it's driving me nuts in here. They still won't _let me go_!"

They discussed their respective children for a while. Johanna fretted about what she'd find when she returned home to a house taken over by her mother and her aunt. Emmanuelle said she hoped the decorators and interior designers would have completed Four Spa Lane by the time she was discharged. Johanna remarked that Number Sixteen was now, sadly, up for sale. Pity it hadn't been _earlier_ , as they're dead set on moving out, apparently. They want a quick sale. Emmanuelle filed this for future reference. Then slept.

* * *

Ten days later, after Johanna and Emmanuelle had both been discharged from hospital and had returned home to Spa Lane, it happened to Davinia. She had noted the Cordinglys had sold quickly and had moved out, with every apparent haste, to a quieter street. She wondered who'd bought the house. She had also learnt that Five Shallow Valley was up for sale too; the Jennersons were also moving on.

She sighed at the thought of new neighbours on two sides, and went for a walk in her garden.

Twenty minutes later she was doubled up and screaming for help. Simon and Martin took charge and got her to hospital. Several hours later after a lot of blood-curdling screaming that left her sons wondering how long their father would be allowed to live for, there was a baby sister.

Davinia, after her mother. The boys accepted this philosophically.

* * *

Emmanuelle accepted the house-deeds for Sixteen Spa Lane with thanks and set about having the furniture moved from the briefly-inhabited Number Four. She justified this on the grounds that the previous owners had not been able to live with Assassin families on either side. So the new owner had, logically, only to be of one profession. It also put her in touch with good neighbours. An attack on any one would be an attack on all three. She wondered what to do about Number Four. She could sell it, or perhaps she could rent it. She wondered if any colleagues at the Guild School might take the house. After all, Spa Lane these days was becoming _La Rue des Assassins._

And the future beckoned, for all three families.

* * *

 **(1)** to my story _**The Graduation Class.** _

**_And that's pretty much it. Perhaps ONE last Afterword. Then this one's a wrap, with slight revision to an earlier chapter to meet a few points a reader noticed._**


	20. Last echoes

_**Nothing to it, really 20**_

 _ **Afterwords**_

 _ **Last dangling loose ends tied up - and I actually finish a story! For now.  
**_

Johanna sat at a table in her back garden considering the domestic accounts. Her parents still showed no signs of leaving for home, and were currently in attendance at the Palace, observing the opening legal snarling at the Trial of the Howondaland Four. She had not wanted to do this while her parents were in the house or there was a danger of them returning unexpectedly. Or her mother would have been looking over her shoulder making noises about "waste", and "well, that's an un-necessary expense, _straight_ away!", or "you can cut back on the amount you budget for feeding your staff!" or something else. Her protestations that running a city house in Ankh-Morpork was not the same as managing a farm community on the Veldt would have been dismissed.

Periodically she looked up to where Annaliese the nanny was dealing with Bekki. Annaliese was a big broad cheerful girl from somewhere in the Stos, possibly the border region between Sto Kerrig and Sto Helit. She spoke an interesting language, the one that wasn't quite Kerrigian, known to its people as Phlegmish **.(1)** Johanna found she could understand it well enough if she _really_ focused. She tried not to speak it back. She worried that people might think she was taking the piss. Or the phlegm. Her mother had over-ruled her here too, preferring to have a homely, uncomplicated, big-hearted _familiar_ sort of a young woman as nanny to her grandchild. Annaliese's family were stolid farming yeomans, who ran a sprout and cabbage growing business in the Sto Plains. This had earned her the approval of Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, as well as the fact she spoke a broadly intelligible language related to _Vondalaans._ Annaliese was in fact making heroic attempts to adjust her spoken language to a more Vondalaans style; Johanna wondered if her daughter would grow up speaking a dialect all of her own that averaged out the quirks of Kerrigian, Phlegmish/ Phlaams and Vondalaans. A language professor at the University, himself from Sto Kerrig, referred to this phenomenon as _Tussentaal._ Apparently her daughter needed _normality_. Not a Gothic governess, along the lines of that strange woman who claims to be from Sto Helit but can't speak a word of a proper language. _Ah well. Maybe I can get somebody like Susan later, if she's needed._

She smiled at her daughter's evident gurgling happiness with her world. All the discomfort and struggle had been worth it, then. Then she looked down at the page. The left-hand column was depressingly short and had headings like

My cash in bank.

Ponder's cash in bank.

My investment income.

Ponder's annual pay.

My annual salaries.

Sundry income.

The right-hand column covered outgoings. It was far longer. It also had to account for the additional costs of housing, clothing and paying a nanny.

Johanna looked down at one item on the page.

 _Mariella._

A second item had been pencilled in below. It read

 _Johanna SR-M._

Mariella's school fees were paid for by a government grant. Johanna suspected she knew _which_ rich and influential people at home were underwriting that government grant, to send selected students to the Assassins' School. She wasn't one hundred per cent _sure_ it was Uncle Charles who was covertly paying her sister's school fees, but she would not be surprised. And he was _definitely_ paying for those of her niece, her sister's eldest, who had got an unprecedented unconditional place at the School from next year.

 _Better she doesn't find out…._

The issue here was pocket money allowances. Johanna was not unsympathetic to the needs of a young girl for money of her own. And had watched and asked the girls she then managed in Raven House, curious as to how they viewed personal allowances and pocket money, what they chose to spend it on, whether they thought it was adequate, **(2)** and what they thought they _should_ be allocated in an ideal world. **(3).**

Through cautious reflection and calculation, she arrived at a usefully representative figure. Then she halved it. Then, reflecting that the School fed and housed the girls, and all the clothing they needed was provided, she cut the new figure by a third. Then as the next of kin who was responsible for these things, she made sure Mariella got that sum every week. She promised a review on every birthday. It seemed to work out OK. Hearing about her sister and Rivka's private enterprise with regard to clothing repairs for other girls, Johanna had smiled and awarded full marks for enterprise.

It was a small but necessary entry on the other side of the ledger book.

And it looked as if she needed to budget as much again for her niece, due to arrive as a student.

Julian had deftly ensured his father had paid for all the repair bills to the house. Charles Smith-Rhodes' unwitting largesse had also paid for the new upper story to be built above the mews, on the flat roof where she'd had her final fight with du Plessis. She was happy about that. It meant she didn't need to confront a bad memory every time she entered or left her home. The house extension had been completed inside six weeks and now offered a suite of new rooms, both immediately above the mews and one in the attic. More rooms would be useful. Annaliese lived in now. Bekki would want a room of her own when she got older. Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande should be offered the same sort of privilege as Mariella with regard to overnight stays. Family demands dictated it. _One daughter. One sister. One niece. Ag!_

But it was still costing.

The items on the right hand column represented a slow but inexorable bite into the income represented on the left side. Upkeep of house, staff pay and perks for an expanded staff, money to be set aside for school fees for Bekki and potential siblings (She winced. Not _just_ yet).

She looked down at the page again. Then made a few more calculations.

 _With the fifteen thousand dollars for duPlessis, Ponder and I can afford to maintain this standard of living for possibly twelve years. And in that time it is entirely possible there will be more Guild contracts to pay into my investment accounts. I believe we are financially stable as a family. I've started an investment fund for Bekki with part of the fee for du Plessis. Over eleven years, it will build as an investment and pay for her school fees. Wherever she goes. As for first school, perhaps Seven-Handed Sek's. It has a good reputation and the fees are manageable. Perhaps I can pay Mariella's weekly allowance from the nearly nineteen thousand dollars I hold in trust for her. It is her money, after all. I'll speak to the Bank as to whether this is admissible as an expense. And in coming years she will require bespoke weapons, expensive equipment, armour, specialised clothing. It looks as if this will be left to me, too…_

She frowned, thinking about something she'd heard at school. Mariella's Housemistress, Mlle de Badin-Boucher, had approached Johanna privately in the staffroom and diffidently expressed a suspicion, just a _soupçon,_ really, that Mariella might be up to something. It was a housemistress's instinct, perhaps, something her predecessor La Comptesse had said she ought to trust and not ignore, in her dealings with the girls in her care. Johanna, who had managed a House herself for over a decade, had asked her to go on. Instincts and suspicions, feeling something wasn't quite _right_ in the atmosphere or in the moods of the girls, were part of the job.

Antoinette had asked if Johanna was allowing her sister access to the not insubstantial sum of money she had earned on the recent contract, which had been paid into her sister's care to be held in trust for her.

Johanna had said Mariella was getting nothing more than her normal weekly allowance of pocket money. Antoinette had then apologised for possibly wasting her time, for she had nothing more than the tiniest suggestion that Mariella might have a little more money about her person than her allowance, and her side income in clothing repair for other girls, could account for. She was making no adverse allegations, Johanna should understand, and some perfectly normal thing could account for it, and she was watching, but had no reason to search the girl's locker and personal space for _irregularities._ This was only done if clear cause existed.

Johanna had reassured her colleague, explained that eighty per cent of a Housemistress's time was spent keeping an eye on the girls, and expressed her appreciation that she was getting the hang of the finer points of the job so quickly. And that she would also watch Mariella and her friends, and casually ask if she'd found other permissible avenues for earning extra cash.

She frowned. How to approach her sister? And on what grounds? She ruled out the stupider, meaner, things like theft: Mariella was not that sort of girl, and anyway nobody in Black Widow House or indeed anywhere had complained of missing things. And no valuable Guild property had gone missing. Some students in the past had tried pinching and reselling School property. The Guild watched for this and such students tended to self-select for overconfidence and stupidity, anyway. Mariella was neither. Perhaps her father had given her a few dollars in a spirit of generosity – Barbarossa was prone to that – and neglected to tell Johanna. It could be as simple as that.

She decided to say nothing at present, just watch and be attentive. She tidied away the household accounts and returned to the house, appreciating the early summer sunshine. _It's Father,_ she thought. _He's probably given her twenty dollars or somesuch other vastly over-generous amount. Mother would shout at him for being too generous, so he's being prudently quiet about it._ She knew her father had brought a small pouch of uncut diamonds and a roll of golden _Burgerrands_ with him, knowing Pieter van der Graaf had good contacts who could turn them into local money, without trying to cheat on the deal. It was financing their stay. She preferred not to know where her father had acquired the diamonds, which he had off-hand said were part of the retirement plan for himself and her mother.

"The ladies are here, Madam." Claude the butler said.

"Show them in, Claude". she invited.

And on top of everything, she now had _witches_ to deal with. _Nice_ witches, _friendly_ witches, her sort of witches. But witches, nonetheless. It was another necessary consequence of the deadly fight that had taken place here and nearly wrecked the house. There were no obvious signs of the damage and the wreckage now, and any bloodstains soaked into the floorboards had been scrubbed, disinfected, and covered in new carpet. But as Olga and Irena had said to Ponder in one of those magic-users' conversations she felt excluded from, there were subtler things to consider, especially with the baby arriving in the house.

Johanna hadn't argued: she had felt a change in the atmosphere after the fight. The maids, Eve and Blessing, had complained of not being able to sleep well at night. That could just be the usual sort of shock following on from a home invasion. Post-combat trauma. Johanna had felt a touch of that every time she'd looked up at the flat roof where du Plessis might have killed her. But Ponder had tactfully tried to explain that he thought the witches could be right. And if nothing else, the maids might be reassured by witnessing a bit of magick, with the terminal "k" that was pronounced "boffo" by the witches.

Johanna welcomed the four witches. Claude had seen to it that there was a side table with tea and a selection of cakes and sandwiches. Given what they were going to do for her, it all looked reassuringly homely. Somewhere in the background, Dorothea the cook had started preparing cabbage for the evening dinner. Now and again a waft blew through from the kitchen. **(4)**

"Four sugars, please, love." Mrs Proust said, genially.

Johanna knew something about witch etiquette. She motioned Claude to stand back as Nottie went to pour tea for the others. It didn't matter that she was a Princess. The youngest witch in any gathering of witches alwayspoured the tea.

Claude raised a dignified eyebrow. It clearly went against his training to allow a Royal Highness to pour her own tea.

"It's a witch thing, Claude." Johanna half-explained. As the non-witch present, she was served last. She understood this too.

Mrs Proust poured some into her saucer to cool. Then drained it.

"Sorry we couldn't have been here any earlier." she said, reaching for one of the stickier cream cakes. "But an afternoon when these three are all on the ground in the same place and not gaullivanting around on the flying horses is hard to get."

Irena and Olga nodded assent. Tea was consumed and cakes were eaten. Johanna reflected that watching an old witch eat a cream cake was, in its way, an education.

"Young Ponder identified a problem." Mrs Proust said. "Starting in his study, I understand?"

Johanna nodded. She considered she had the psychic awareness of a breezeblock. But even she had felt it, in one particular spot in Ponder's study, near the window. Apparently there was a similar cold unwholesome feeling in the hall near the front door, and again upstairs in the corridor. Annaliese had reported that baby Bekki had started crying, completely unaccountably, when walked into that part of the corridor, and had looked wide-eyed and fearful. Johanna had noted that sometimes her daughter cried in the night for no apparent reason at all. It concerned her. The dogs flattened back their ears and growled menacingly when shown any of these spots in the house. Both maids flatly refused to go into Ponder's study, which hadn't been dusted in weeks, and which was now looking very much like a wizard's bachelor quarters. Claude had listened to their stories and had not pressed the point or forced them to go in and clean. Both had used the phrase " _bad muti_ ".

Ponder had explained what he thought was happening and his first instinct had been to ask Doctor Hix to come over. Johanna, knowing Hix's speciality, had firmly vetoed this, on the grounds the cure could be worse than the disease. Ridcully had backed her up and suggested she try the witches, as they had the necessary soft skills to deal with it.

"You've got native maids from Howondaland." Irena said, considering. "At the moment they're spooked and unsettled. Talking about _muti."_

Irena had been to Howondaland. A witch, she instinctively understood the Howondalandian fear of _muti_. She'd used it to frighten Prince Samuel's army. Olga had terrified a couple of prisoners into obedience by a display of _muti._ In one sense it was what witches here called _boffo._ But it was the surface flim-flam and show that served as misdirection to very potent realities underneath.

"So we do what's necessary. But we do it with a lot of obvious boffo. So they know it's safe to dust Ponder's study again." Irena said.

"Our _muti_ is even _stronger._ " Olga agreed.

"Do what you need to." Johanna said. "Ponder wented Hix here. You know. The _Insorcist._ "

Mrs Proust breathed inwards through her teeth.

"Oooh. Not good." She said. "not good _at all_. He'd only shift the problem down the road. Insorcism means to make it somebody else's problem. Like cats and crap. You'd be _really_ popular with the neighbours!"

"When we have to. We do _exorcism_." Nottie said, cheerfully. "Mrs Ogg took me on a case once. She told me about the time she and mum and Mistress Weatherwax did all the ghosts at Lancre Castle. Some of them haunt her washroom now!"

"And I'm sure you'll do well." Mrs Proust said. "But under _supervision_ , mind you. I promised your mother. Now speaking of your mother. Magrat Garlick had a reputation for all the frills and flounces, in her day. Totally useless, but showy, and looked good to people who were impressed by that sort of thing."

Mrs Proust looked reflective for a moment.

"Almost as bad as Lettice Earwig." she said. "Except that at bottom, Magrat was _good_. Still is. Nottie, I want you to channel your mother here. Good and hard. You two girls got any frills and flounces? I brought loads from the shop. This has to be _seen_ to be good. Don't you agree, Mr Butler?"

"Completely, madam." Claude agreed. "Please tell me when I can allow the female members of staff into the vicinity, so they can be reassured that your _muti_ is strong."

Curtains were closed. Candles and incense were lit. Ram's skulls **(5)** were strategically positioned. Dribbly candles were attached to the top of the skulls, centred in the pentagrams inscribed between the horns. As a nod to Howondaland, Johanna provided a real impala skull with horns attached. She also suggested some fragrant native herbs be infused into boiling water, so the maids would smell something familiar from Home.

Claude called together Blessing, Dorothea and Eve and said the witches were about to perform a potent native magic to rid the house of bad _muti._ It went without saying that they were expressly forbidden to try and watch or eavesdrop. He was going to go and confer with Cyprian and Simeon in the garden shed, and he trusted that _nobody_ would try to peek in through the living room door.

Then he went to spend time in the garden, (taking the dogs with him so the _real_ magic wouldn't spook them), having prudently left both doors to the darkened living room just enough ajar, so that a clever person, or persons, could watch through the crack.

After a round of plausible-sounding invocations and imprecations, with ceremonial libations given to the four compass directions and Guardians of the Way being invoked, the witches got down to the real business. Johanna, watching with interest, saw one after the other allow her head to droop and fall apparently into deep sleep. Ponder had described this as astral travel, Walking the Planes, or Going Out of Body. She thought she heard a little gasp behind her, abruptly cut off. It sounded like Blessing had been nudged into silence by Eve. She smiled, happily.

This was the real business, something the witches could have done in five minutes flat with no ceremony. She sat back to await results. She noted Ponder's staff, over the fireplace, glowing faintly blue-green with induced magic. Mrs Proust had said she thought it would be accepting.

* * *

Nottie drifted to her insubstantial feet, noting the staff over the fireplace was glowing with iridescent light. Mrs Proust had asked Ponder to tell it what was going on and to recognise this was for the good of the household to whom its Wizard was nominal head. Serving the witches if they needed its help would serve him, and thus fulfil the Staff's reason for being.

 _It's behaving itself,_ she thought _. Good._ She looked down at her own body without shock or surprise and winced at the nose and messy hair she'd inherited from her mother. She was young enough to take her genetics as an insult.

 _Better get moving, child._ she heard Mrs Proust's voice almost in her head. _Out in the hallway corridor. Remember these things are powerless. Don't let it get into your head. I'll be watching you._

Nottie contemplated the wall and closed door with a disbelief she knew was a hangover from her physical body. She stepped forward and tried to go carefully blank as she stepped through. And then she was in the hall and it was coming at her.

 _Where's my fifty dollars?_ it demanded. _That bloody Howondalandian promised me fifty dollars for this job! I ain't leaving till I get paid!_

Nottie forced herself to stand her insubstantial ground. She folded her arms and glared at the spectre.

 _-I'm sorry, but there's no gentle way of saying this. You're dead._ she vocalised. _Those crossbow bolts sticking out of you aren't a clue? Two in the chest, one in the neck? And the sword slashes?_

 _Dead? That bloody Howondalandian chisseller recruited me, led me here, I did what he asked, did'n'I? I was ready to storm the house, kill everybody, first pick of valuables, and fifty dollars in hand. Then I gets dumped here! And I'm mad as Hell!_

 _-Hell. Yes. Hold that thought…_

An insubstantial ghost of a meat cleaver or some other ugly blade swung. Nottie forced herself to remain impassive and let it swing right through her. The spectre swung and swung again, anger slowly being replaced by puzzlement. Then Nottie raised a hand, refocused, caught the blade and stopped it dead. The spectre tried to wrench it loose. She smiled at him, without humour.

 _-The game's over._ She vocalised. _You came here to murder people. You were not welcome then and you aren't welcome now. In life you were a thug who used strength to frighten, intimidate and hurt people. You were strong there. Well, I'm strong_ _ **here.**_ _And_ _ **you**_ _are weak._

Nottie put out her strength. The ghost of an attacker recoiled and shrank as she pushed back.

 _-Mrs Ogg taught me a really simple banishing spell. Do you want to hear it? It goes- BUGGER OFF!_

Suddenly, the spirit screamed, imploded and dwindled to nothing.

 _Well done, girl!_ She heard from behind her. _Now shall we see how the others are doing?_

* * *

Olga had drifted into Ponder's study. The grimoires, locked into the glass-fronted bookcase, were a wall of angry fire, occasionally flickering hostile lashes of radiance towards the spectre, locked in place by the window, who was feebly trying to dodge. This ghost, a single spectral crossbow bolt in the middle of its chest, was bewildered and frightened, if anything, and all the fight had long since been knocked out of him. Olga felt the desolate agonising cold around him and shivered.

 _Please, miss._ It said. _I've been tryin' to leave ever since that night. Something ain't letting me. Even the man with the scythe said I had to stay. He said I should await the Watch. The wizard saw me, and said he couldn't do anything about it if I had a destiny to fulfil. He did promise he'd talk to people, though._

Olga nodded and decided a little compassion was in order. She focused, and rearranged herself so she was in her Watch uniform.

 _-Luckily, my official title is Lance-constable Olga Romanoff, Witch Police Constable._ she said. _Consider yourself in my custody._

She wondered if… yes. She produced spectral handcuffs. The astral was a place where ideas and concepts were malleable.

 _-Walk with me._ she said, locking them on. She wondered how on earth a Watchwoman would phrase _this_ arrest report. It was the strangest beat of all to walk.

They passed out into the daylight garden together. Then Olga released him. The spirit faded to nothing. Looking round, she saw two other gloomy spectres tied to points in the front garden. She realised from the scattered pieces attached by multiple glowing blue cords that these must have been ones the goblins had got on the night. Sighing, she went to free and expel them.

* * *

Irena had drawn the upstairs corridor. She soon saw the focal point of the disturbance, near to the room Ruth and Julian had occupied on the night. This thug was still fighting mad, enraged that he'd fallen to the mad black woman with the sword. He was apparently waiting here to settle things with her. He was passing his time by trying to get anyone who passed him by. The fat blonde girl with the baby was good fun, apparently. The kid squealed with fear knowing he was trying to poke it.

 _-Is that really the best you can do?_ Irena asked. _Just making a baby cry?_ She metaphorically rolled her sleeves up. _-You're so lucky I'm not Gytha Ogg. She'd blast you into oblivion for a remark like that._

Irena focused and the ghost was enveloped in a ring of spectral fire.

 _-And by the way, that baby's named after_ **me** _. You could say I'm her fairy godmother. In_ _ **this**_ _case, "fairy" in the sense of "elf"._

She watched as the ghost screamed in the fiery prison. She sensed Nottie and Mrs Proust nearby.

 _Hurt the baby, did he?_ The old witch said. She glowered at the burning spectre.

 _-Tried to._ said Irena. _Frightened her, anyway._ _Luckily he can't move very far from where he died. Ruth killed him on this spot._

There was a change in the psychic atmosphere. A horse whinnied. The three witches were not surprised to see the tall figure in a black cloak.

LADIES.

 _-You're late, aren't you?_

I APOLOGISE. THIS IS WHAT YOU MIGHT CALL AN AFTERCARE VISIT. A FOLLOW-UP.

Death stalked down the corridor.

JAMES "EVIL PSYCHO BASTARD" MOLLOY. THE NODES ARE NOW RIGHT FOR ME TO COLLECT YOU AND OFFER YOU AN OPPORTUNITY TO MOVE ON. I APOLOGISE FOR THE WAIT. BUT SOME THINGS ARE MANDATED BY DESTINY. AND FATE.

The scythe swung. Death concluded his business and said

MUST GO. THREE LATE ARRIVALS TO COLLECT IN THE GARDEN. YOUR COLLEAGUE HAS BEEN HELPFUL THERE.

And then it was over.

* * *

"Hed fun?" Johanna asked, as the four witches apparently awoke, one after the other.

"I'll say!" Mrs Proust grinned. "you were right to call us. You had a big infestation of ghosts. Bound to, after that big fight! Lots of people passing on suddenly and violently. But they're all gone now. We shifted 'em."

"Bekki's safe." Irena said, with satisfaction. "Interesting she was aware of one especially nasty bastard upstairs. Evil bugger was going for her because she's vulnerable. Wonder if that's a pointer to her getting magic later?"

Claude appeared with a fresh teapot.

"I am given to understand hot sweet tea is mandated for witches after the successful completion of an act of magic." he said, smoothly. "Madam, I have instructed Eve and Blessing they now have no excuse to refuse to clean the Professor's study. They will be attending to the matter directly."

"Thenk you, Claude." Johanna said, with feeling. She wanted to rush to her daughter's side, and wondered if it was always going to feel this way when her child was distressed. And was she going to be mother of a witch?

* * *

Mariella Smith-Rhodes paid the money in over the Post Office counter. After the serpent of rebellion had flashed a fang in her, there had been no going back. The difficulty had been in arranging things so that Mlle Antoinette and others would not become aware and would find no proof.

And Moist von Lipwig's latest innovation - a Post Office Savings Bank for the small saver – had been a success. He had reasoned that with a growing network of Post Offices in place around the city and the Sto Plains, this made for a convenient network of branches for the ordinary customer to pay in and withdraw cash. There were now more Post offices than there were bank branches. Underwritten by the Royal Bank, it brought together both his big business concerns in a most satisfying way. The investor was issued a passbook and all transactions in and out were logged. Interest was paid four times a year.

It was ideal for Mariella's purposes, except that she needed a parent or a guardian's written permission to open an account. Not wanting to involve Johanna, her parents being in town offered an alternative.

And the night her father came back worse for wear, after ostensibly having been offered a guided tour of the University by Ponder Stibbons, had been a gods-send. Barbarossa had been offered hospitality by Mustrum Ridcully. The inevitable had happened, and Father had come back in a state her mother described as "happily drunk."

In that state he had spoken gravely to his younger daughter, stressed how proud he was of her, emphasised that he didn't say enough that he loved her, and had pushed a bundle of banknotes at her with the instruction not to tell her mother or her big sister, hey, go out and buy something _nice_ for yourself. He had then reeled off to face the old cold shoulder in bed.

Mariella had counted nearly a hundred dollars.

The next day she had quietly spoken to her mother and said Father had given her some money. But she thought, rather than spend it, she ought to do the responsible and correct thing with it and open a bank account for herself. Would Mother be kind enough to give written permission?

Agnetha had smiled graciously and commended her grown-up maturity. _Of course_ she'd help. _Everybody_ should start saving, as early as possible.

A trip to the post office had opened the account. Her mother had winced at the amount, but said that as it was being saved and not spent, she would not complain about it. Even Miss Maccalariat had smiled, and expressed approval that here was a young girl who had good habits of thrift and prudence. So unlike so many young girls of her age.

Miss Maccalariat continued to praise her every time she paid money in. It was not unusual for pupils at the Assassins School to have more money available to them than their less privileged peers. Nobody thought it unusual or out of place.

And back in her dorm at Black Widow House, Mariella patiently inserted a knife with a wide thin flexible blade into the board cover of her issued Maths text. She wiggled it until she had separated the inner and outer boards, creating a space large enough to conceal her savings account passbook. After inserting her bank book, she closed the protective outer cover over the book. **(6)** It would be safely hidden in there until she needed it again.

It had all started the week Matron Igorina had examined her leg, put her though some basic physical exercise, and announced she was fit to run again. The news spread. Rupert Mericet remarked to her that the quoted odds were two to one on Sissi, who was favourite, and eight to one on Mariella, thought unlikely to win this week as she was recovering from injury.

Mariella thanked him, and did some mental arithmetic. _Eight to one on me. If therefore an anonymous person bets thirty dollars, and I then win, the return is two hundred and forty dollars plus my - the anonymous person's - stake money. On the other hand, thirty dollars on Sissi at two to one. The return is only sixty dollars plus stake money. But the same anonymous person still wins sixty. That covers the thirty dollars lost on the other bet and makes thirty dollars profit. Still a profit. And one of us is bound to win._

She gave thought to the anonymous person who should place their bets. Cousin Julian had laughed at the simplicity of the idea but regretfully said it might be best if he didn't do it. He pointed out that if Johanna were to find out, and she would not do so from _him,_ it could cause family argument, and he didn't want that. And each of you only bets on _herself_ , even by proxy. That way, nobody can accuse the loser of deliberately throwing the race, so that her bet on the other pays. If you each have a bet on yourself in a race where winning is a matter of personal pride, it makes it more legitimate. Gives you an extra incentive to win. Not even the Gamblers' Guild could argue with that.

Mariella took the point, and she and Sissi left their stake money with Rupert Mericet to place at his bookmakers. They knew he could be trusted to get the best odds.

On the first Wednesday, Sissi won by a fiercely contended nine or ten yards. But that was expected.

"The odds on you will be longer next week, Boor-girl." Sissi said. When Rupert discreetly passed her an envelope later in the day, she counted it, nodded, peeled off thirty dollars, and gave it to Mariella, as per Agreement.

"Your stake money, Boor-girl. And I still have thirty dollars more than I did this morning."

Mariella thanked her. She'd won nothing, it was true. But then she'd lost nothing either. It showed the system worked.

The following week the odds on Mariella were nine to one. She considered, and staked forty dollars this week. It was another very close-run race where both girls ran their hearts out. Mariella won, by the barest of margins. Later in the day four hundred dollars arrived in a sealed envelope. Mariella returned Sissi's stake money on herself and banked the remainder. Rupert turned down an offer of a percentage.

"No need. I had two hundred riding on you." he said. "Same odds, different bookie. Eighteen hundred. Satisfying."

In the three Wednesday afternoons leading up to the end of term, Mariella banked nearly twelve hundred dollars. Sissi found she was better off by several hundred.

By mutual assent, the two girls decided to stop betting for a while. Rupert had gone away for the summer, and finding a new proxy might have been risky. They had sufficient to supplement their pocket money allowances for at least the summer. And they agreed it was a satisfying victory over their teachers, shaking hands and agreeing to resume in the new term.

Johanna watched carefully, but saw no sign that her sister was doing anything actionable. She did notice a growing closeness with the Zulu girl, and approved of this. She'd arrived at similar _detentes_ with people like Ruth N'Kweze, after all. It took time, but it happened. And after the witches had performed a cleansing, the house had never felt better, warmer, cleaner, lighter. The dogs had stopped growling at certain spots in the house, and Bekki was no longer frightened in the night. The maids were sleeping soundly and a sense of harmony had settled, even if her parents - _and Cousin Suki, blast her_ \- still had to stay there until the trial was over.

Johanna had a summer outing planned for a few days. She'd be taking Mariella to Scrote. To do some historical digging around. What could be found out, at this distance, concerning her illustrious ancestor Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes? She wanted to find out. And his birthplace would be a good start. She smiled. Uncle Charles was cagey about this. Maybe, she'd discover, with good reason.

It looked like being a nice summer.

* * *

 **(1)** Unkind people listening to languages in the general Dutch continuum might be heard to make snide comments about the Frisian language family being not so much speech as the product of a throat infection. Flemish, as well as offering a gift name to the snarky, is spoken in Belgium, and attracts much comment of this kind. **_Tussentaal_** is the name given to an attempt to create a Standard Belgian dialect out of all the different idiolects in Belgian Flemish. (But as with BBC English, only really used by RTL and VRT). Sort of like Standard Received, or BBC English, in Britain. What you learn when researching... the idea is that as the world becomes smaller, the variant forms of an _Ur-Nederlans_ language which have spent several hundred years getting away from each other will come back together again. Even Afrikaans.

 **(2)** She wasn't surprised when the universal answer was "no".

 **(3)** She was equally unsurprised that the general opinion was that it should be much, much, higher. Even from privileged Names like Eorle and Venturi, already on indulgent family allowances. She had thought it prudent to point out that some people were being woefully unrealistic, and invited them to compare wishful thinking about having twenty dollars a week to most peoples' reality, in this city, being fifteen to twenty dollars _a month_.

 **(4)** Some things are inevitable and mandated by narrative causality. Mrs Cake inevitably has cabbage on the go when conducting séances. It has been speculated that the smell of cooking cabbage is inseparable from English occultism. People like their Drawing Back of the Veil to be grounded in the reassuringly homely.

 **(5)** Almost Real Ram's Skull, with big curly horns! Also available in Goat! Essential for the Magickal Practitioner. AM$1.99 from Boffo, on Tenth Egg Street!

 **(6)** You know. The ones every school in creation insists their pupils make to "protect" the issued books, regardless of the fact they're often hopelessly ragged, creased, dog-eared and breoken-spined to begin with.


End file.
